Indecision
by Domini Porter
Summary: ON HIATUS:: After a rather unfortunate event which has some unexpected consequences, Ginny seeks out her old friend Hermione, living as a Muggle and far-removed from her old life . . . for now. Silly, AU femmeslash. Now with smut!
1. Chapter 1

"That is such bollocks, Ginny, that is such absolute bollocks." Harry's face was deep scarlet. Ginny set her jaw, trying to keep her fury at bay. He was pacing the room, making broad circles around the furniture. Ginny was rooted to her spot, fists clenched, breathing shallowly through her teeth. "I mean, of all the things to say to someone, of _all _the things, you had to say _this_."

"Well, what did you _expect_ me to say?" she muttered, her voice low to prevent herself from shouting. "That I wanted to be with you forever, even though I don't want to be with you at all?"

"Something like that!" Harry bellowed. "This is a _relationship_, it takes _effort_."

Ginny couldn't control herself. "Don't tell me about _effort_," she shouted. "Don't tell _me_ that I'm not trying hard enough! If you knew—if you had any _idea_—"

"Idea of what?" he shouted back. "How am I supposed to have any bloody idea about _anything _going on inside your head when you don't tell me?"

"Because it's a _relationship_," Ginny spat. "It takes _effort_."

Harry slammed his hand down on the table, rattling the glasses. "Fuck, Ginny. Do whatever you bloody please." He stormed out of the room, kicking over a vase on his way out. The childishness of the gesture was so absurd that Ginny burst out laughing. Harry slammed the bedroom door in response.

"Could've been worse," she said to herself as she righted the vase and straightened the flowers. At least it was done. She had been thinking for weeks of how it would happen, mapping out every possible reaction like Quidditch strategies. She flipped through the mental game plans, from simplest to most complex, and decided it had been somewhere in the middle. At least he hadn't cried. That page had been placed decidedly at the back of her game book, the reaction she had dreaded the most. But it hadn't happened. Shouting was easy, kicking over home accessories a decided touch of humor that she hadn't anticipated. It made everything so much easier to deal with. Juvenility made real life so much more palatable, especially if it wasn't you.

She sighed as she looked around the living room. So much clutter. Gryffindor banners, a replica of the House Cup, piles of half-read books, their places marked with errant parchment. Empty ink bottles, bent quills, and the wrappings from several Chocolate Frogs littered the tabletops. Scarves, gloves, torn capes on every chair. Everywhere Ginny looked were reminders of how little distance she'd traveled from the Burrow, from childhood. During the brief moment when she'd been on her own she had reveled in bare surfaces, in clean dishes, in order and tidiness. And then she'd moved in with Harry.

The suspicious neatness of his flat should've been a clue.

When she had first arrived, everything had been tucked carefully into its own area, _too _carefully, as though everything were brand-new and hadn't been removed from its original packaging. Harry had been slightly nervous about her touching anything. Only later did she realize that this was because behind the surface cleanliness lurked an irrepressible wave of clutter; the cupboards were black holes of trunks, potion bottles, splintered bits of old brooms, pristine jugs of cleaning products still emblazoned with their softly twinkling quality seals. She had grinned and borne it in the early days, had rolled up her sleeves and slowly but surely excavated closets and cabinets until she had achieved a sense of harmony within the house.

However.

Harry's inherently immature nature had quickly taken over, his disregard for cleaning up after himself making the rooms fill up with junk again until the entire place looked like it had been overtaken with a thicket of Devil's Snare so dense Ginny was amazed they could find anything. She had tried to be jovial about it, to prod Harry with subtle hints disguised in a joking tone that he, in his thickheadedness, had interpreted as only that.

Now, standing in the aftermath of her relationship, Ginny was almost grateful for the minor disaster of their living space. It was awfully convenient to have such an obvious sticking-point to use as a springboard for that inevitable conversation. It had been so easy to start in about the state of the bathroom—_really, Harry, an alchemy kit? In the toilet?—_and from there jump straight into her imminent departure from their living arrangement. She hadn't even had to go into the real reasons, hadn't needed to mention—

It was so _tidy_. Not a clean break, but a clean house.

She wandered through the rooms collecting her things. She wasn't taking anything they had bought together, didn't want the reminders. Only the things that were hers. She could easily find a new bed, a new sofa, and in the meantime she was sure Hermione would let her stay. Hermione, who hadn't made the disastrous choice to move in with Ron. Harry was bad, but Ginny had known her brother all her life, and Hermione wouldn't stand a chance against the hellish pit he called his house.

Ginny poked around for the telephone before pulling out her wand and summoning it. It came barreling out from the spare bedroom, a sock caught on the antenna. She flicked the sock to the floor and dialed Hermione's number. The pulses of the Muggle dial were still slightly jarring to her, but Hermione lived in London, in a proper flat, and Ginny supposed she had to get used to it. The distance from magic was something else she still relished, living on her own meant she was free to use or not use it as she chose, and sometimes she just didn't feel like it. Using Muggle technology made her feel adventurous and slightly rustic at the same time, like a visitor to a foreign country that hadn't yet developed the flush toilet.

Hermione didn't answer. The tinny greeting played in Ginny's ear and she opted not to leave a message. She'd surprise Hermione, it would be fun.

Ginny amassed a pile of her belongings, kicking old newspapers and unmatched shoes out of the way, and surveyed her haul. So much of it was ancient, books and bits of detritus that had traveled with her since her childhood. She poked at the figurine of Rowena Ravenclaw her great-aunt had given her in the hopes of guiding her toward a House that would produce at least one intellectual Weasley and sighed. She didn't _need_ it. There were so few things she felt like she needed. Clothing, obviously, which might prove difficult to get at the moment. Harry was still fuming in the bedroom; periodically Ginny heard a heavy thump that signified he wasn't done kicking things yet.

She stared hard at the pile of things and, with characteristic impulsiveness, pointed her wand at it and set it on fire.

As it burned, occasional flickers of purple and green signifying the destruction of IMPORTANT DOCUMENT: DO NOT BURN, she sighed. Weight was dropping off her. First Harry, now all this useless rubbish.

She wanted to leave. The clothes could wait, she decided. Harry was angry, but he wasn't terribly impulsive, so it was unlikely that she would return to find a charred pile of jumpers. She grabbed her shoulder bag—she'd need her Muggle identification (a graduation gift from her father) and whatever other random and unnecessary garbage it was that cluttered up bags.

"I'm leaving, Harry," she called toward the bedroom door. A sharp crash answered her. "Please don't break everything, you know you won't clean it up and you've never been good at healing charms." Another crash, and she shook her head and walked out of the apartment.

The trip to London was one she preferred to make by Floo powder, so she walked to the village station and flipped a coin out of her pocket. "London," she said to the bored attendant.

"Third hearth, speak clearly and close your eyes," the girl mumbled. "Enjoy your trip."

"More than you could ever guess," Ginny replied, scooping up the pouch the girl dropped on the counter in front of her. She nearly skipped to her hearth, and called out her destination. The green flash, the brief crushing pressure, and she was emerging from a dingy, graffiti-covered fireplace into the bustling London station.

"Okay," she said to herself. "Where does she live?"

Ginny wasn't entirely sure. Somewhere in the northern part. There was a church nearby. And a park. As she emerged on the surface street her heart sank. She could see five churches from where she stood, and verdant slices of neighborhood parks peeked out between at least half the buildings. "Apparition it is," she muttered. She turned and descended back into the dimness of the Floo station.

Moments later she Apparated in front of what she hoped was Hermione's flat. Not knowing precisely where it was she had focused on the landscape she remembered. It looked the same as it had the one other time she'd visited, several months ago to celebrate Hermione's acquisition of the place. She examined the list of names next to the front entrance carefully. "Granger . . . Granger . . . Granger . . . there it is!" She pressed the button, with only the faintest whisper of anxiety. What if she wasn't home? It wouldn't be difficult for Ginny to return to Harry's place, not in terms of transportation, anyway, but she was so determined not to return except to collect her belongings, she was so _finished _with it, all of it, and now if Hermione wasn't home, she didn't have any other choice, she should have thought it out more fully instead of strategizing the actual break up, where _was_ she—

"Hello?" A breathless female voice through the speaker, one Ginny didn't recognize. It wasn't Hermione's place. Shit.

"Ummm . . ."

"Is someone there?" The voice sounded distracted.

"Yes, I'm looking for Hermione Granger?"

"Oh—yeah, just a minute—Hermione? Someone at the door for you."

Ginny sighed with relief. She _had_ found it. A small flush of pride and satisfaction washed over her. Being on one's own was most definitely preferable. Harry would've insisted on calling, and scheduling, and taking a car, and then probably not going at all. She didn't understand how someone who had absolutely no sense of things being returned to their proper place could be so absolutely hell-bent on itineraries.

After a half-second, Ginny heard Hermione's voice through the speaker. "Yes?"

"Hey, it's me," she said.

"I'm sorry?" Hermione sounded formal, clipped, worst of all, Ginny realized, she sounded _busy_.

"It's—it's Ginny. Weasley," she added, suddenly hesitant. She was acutely aware that she hadn't been on her best behavior when it came to communication—she'd only visited once, after all, and hardly ever wrote. She called more frequently, but usually it was just out of a desire to use the Muggle telephone. _Just like your father_, her mother's voice barked in her ear. It wasn't her fault if Hermione was the only person she knew who actually had one and actually used it for its intended purpose. And she liked Hermione, she really did, Hermione had been one of her best friends for so long that sometimes she forgot that she forgot about her. _I've taken her for granted_, she thought, _which is entirely my fault, and there's absolutely no reason I should be jealous that Hermione has other friends—_

Ginny paused her thoughts. She wasn't jealous, that was silly. Who knew who was up there with her? And even if Hermione _did _have other friends, and it was entirely likely, no, it was all but guaranteed that she did, well, she was entitled to, and after all, it was mostly Ginny's fault anyway, she should've called more, hopefully Hermione would let her stay—

"Ginny? What are you doing here?" The voice was surprised, and vaguely panicked. Ginny went cold. She should've left a message, at least, she should've made sure she actually talked to Hermione first, she should've just stayed with Harry—

"I'm—I was just in the neighborhood. I can come back, if you're busy. Or not," she added by way of apology.

There was a pause that felt as though it lasted centuries. _What's she doing?_ Ginny wondered. _Is she trying to think of how to tell me to go away? Is she cleaning up? Is she figuring out how to get that girl—_

Ginny stopped the last thought from developing fully. _It is no business of mine who that girl is or what she's doing in Hermione's apartment at ten o'clock on a Wednesday morning. Remember, you never write_, she chastised herself. And why would she assume something sordid anyway? Why would that little nascent blip of an idea even think about crossing her mind? There was no reason to imagine anything untoward going on up there, maybe that girl was her visiting cousin, maybe Hermione had fallen on hard times and been forced to take a roommate, there were a million reasons she might be up there, so what if Ginny had immediately thought of the time when she'd burst into Hermione's rooms at school and seen her and Luna—

"Um—just give me five minutes, okay?"

"Yeah, five minutes, great, no problem, I'll be here."

"How about—how about I meet you in the café across the street?"

Ginny was decidedly confused. But she needed a favor, so she decided to pretend she wasn't. "Sounds great," she said as nonchalantly as she could.

"Okay," Hermione said, and was gone.

Ginny stared at the speaker for a moment. The suspicion that something untoward _was _going on up there was becoming stronger. Why else would Hermione want to meet her across the street? Why not just invite her up? Or tell her to come back later? This clandestine business smacked of Hermione trying to get rid of her, Ginny realized. And people who are your best friends—or who _were_ your best friends, at any rate—don't try to get rid of you unless . . . unless . . .

_The shock on Hermione's face. Luna's dreamy eyes. The purple blossom on Hermione's throat._

Ginny shook her head. Hermione was with Ron, mostly. No, she _was_. She was Ron's girlfriend, Ron was her fella, It was totally, completely, for-sure a fact. Hermioneandron. Ronandhermione. Purple marks on Hermione's neck.

_Stop it!_

Ginny crossed the street to the small café and ordered a coffee, trying to keep her fumbling with her Muggle money to a discreet minimum. When she had managed to successfully pay for it, she sat at a booth near the window and scanned the side of Hermione's building, trying to pick out which flat was hers. All of the windows were shuttered. What would she have seen if they hadn't been? A cloud of brown hair, pushing some mysterious figure into a back room? And why, in Ginny's imagination, was the mysterious figure naked?

_Stop it!_

She was being ridiculous. But she was a witch. Sometimes witches just . . . knew things. She wasn't magical for no reason.

Ginny was on the point of using said magic to spy on Hermione when the she appeared in the door of the café, pointedly not disheveled. In fact, it looked as though she had given herself a complete makeover in the past five minutes, or else she had figured out how to wake up looking like a movie star, a potion Ginny occasionally dearly wished for. She caught Ginny's eye and most definitely pasted a smile on her face, Ginny knew, to make it absolutely clear she wasn't _at all _put out by Ginny's sudden appearance.

"Hello, Ginny," she said, her voice most emphatically not strained.

"Hullo," Ginny replied, standing and giving Hermione an awkward hug. Awkward on Hermione's side, Ginny noted, as the girl stiffened slightly and pulled away after a fraction of a second. "How are you?"

"I'm—uh—" Hermione's eyes darted around the room, as though searching for hidden cameras. "Fine. I'm fine."

"I'm really sorry to have come bursting in like this," Ginny said, and was immediately embarrassed. _It's fine. It's fine. No way does she remember that those were in fact exactly the words I said when she and Luna—_

"It's fine," Hermione said quickly, a faint blush spreading on her cheeks. _She does! She does remember it, which means that girl in her flat was—_"So . . ."

"Um. Yes. So." Ginny poured three sugar packets into her coffee and stirred them furiously.

"What brings you to London?" Hermione prodded. "Are you all right?"

"Yes!" Ginny said, perhaps too forcefully as she ripped open another packet of sugar and sent fine glittering dust spreading over the table. "I mean, yes. I'm fine. Actually, I'm probably better than fine, one could almost say I'm great."

"That's—that's great," Hermione said. Silence fell on them then, heavy silence, and very, very loud.

"You look good," Ginny said, not knowing what else to say. It was true, after all, the life of a single girl living in the city was clearly working out very well for Hermione. _Single? Ron. Ron. She's going with my brother. _

"How's Ron?" they asked simultaneously. The blush on their respective cheeks was enough to stop traffic.

"He's fine," Ginny choked. _You don't know? You're his bloody girlfriend. Unless. Purple marks on Hermione's neck. Long blonde hairs on her sweater._

"Oh, good. I mean, I haven't seen him in so long, with him being away, training, you know, up in Scotland."

"Right," Ginny agreed. Ron was, in fact, at this moment completing his third year of Auror training. How he'd managed nobody in the family could quite believe, but nobody asked questions. The consensus was that it was a gratitude appointment for all the hard work and effort Ron had put in during the days leading up to the final battle. Harry had been offered the same but had taken a leave of absence after his second year to spend more time with Ginny. "He's fine."

In truth, Ginny had no idea how her brother was. While her lack of communication with Hermione was questionable, with Ron it was downright unforgivable. She had been passing on messages from Ron and Hermione to her mother for months. She'd have to find a way out of it now, try to backtrack a little the next time she was asked about how their cat was doing.

"That's good," Hermione said, and that silence thudded down on their heads again.

"Anyway, I'm here because . . ." _just say it. Just say it._ "Because I dumped Harry."

Hermione looked shocked. "When?"

"This morning. About 8:30."

"Why?"

Hermione didn't sound as shocked as she was trying to. Ginny eyed her carefully, trying to determine precisely what reaction she was actually having, and laid it on the spectrum between confusion and, curiously, a complete lack of surprise.

"Socks," Ginny said simply. Hermione raised her eyebrow. "A lot of things. Point being, he's probably broken all the dishes and I set most of my things on fire."

At this Hermione looked genuinely taken aback. "You set your things on _fire_?" she said incredulously.

"Well, not all of them," Ginny replied hastily, realizing what she had proclaimed made her sound very dangerously like a lunatic. "Just old things that I didn't want any more."

"I don't understand," Hermione was satisfactorily confounded. "You dumped Harry and he's broken all the china and you set your old things on _fire_?"

"That about sums it," Ginny nodded, and sipped her coffee. She hadn't realized how much sugar she had been adding, and the resultant brew made her teeth squeak.

"Ginny--" Hermione was fumbling for words. Ginny could see the old Hermione peering out from behind whatever sophisticated, mysterious façade had been plastered over her, reinforcing Ginny's original impression that there was in fact an Old Hermione to complement this New Hermione, who was cool and secretive. The Old Hermione could be plainly dumbfounded yet unflappable; the kind of girl who would have friends who set things on fire in fits of pique. The New Hermione had new friends, naked ones, probably, who skulked around her flat answering the buzzer.

_Stop it!_

"I don't understand," Hermione finished finally.

"What part?" Ginny asked, forcing herself to take another swallow of her liquid, caffeinated icing.

"What are you _doing _here?" Hermione caught herself on that, looking briefly embarrassed. "I didn't mean it like that," she continued. "I just mean . . . well, what are you doing here, in London?"

"I've . . . I've, um . . ."

"You haven't set the _furniture_ on fire, have you?"

Ginny flushed scarlet. "No!" she cried. "Of course not, that would be irresponsible! Harry still has to live there, you know, and it was his furniture anyway."

"So where are you--" Hermione stopped. Her mouth dropped open, just slightly.

Ginny squirmed. This wasn't going nearly as well as she'd hoped, but then again, how well could she reasonably have hoped, dropping in on a friend who was so much of a friend that Ginny frequently forgot she was a friend? A friend who lived in a different city, a _proper_ city, where people did all kinds of strange and grown-up things, whereas Ginny had just left a sleepy hamlet where people kicked over vases and set figurines ablaze.

And Hermione wasn't Hermione, not really, she was New Hermione, and Ginny realized with every second that ticked past that this was a very important distinction indeed. New Hermione had strange visitors. New Hermione didn't speak to Ron any more than she did. New Hermione probably wouldn't brush long blonde hairs off her sweater—

_Stop it!_

Ginny gulped. Her molars ached from the coffee. She needed to say something.

"Who was that?" _Not that. Shouldn't have said that. Stupid. Stupid_.

"Who was what?" Hermione asked, growing distant and suspicious.

"At your flat," Ginny said, barreling on. The subject had been broached, the line of questioning set out, Ginny had no choice but to follow where it lead. It was increasingly unlikely that Hermione would be letting her stay, even for a few days, and the likelihood of that when weighed against Ginny's desire to know about the mysterious girl made it inevitable that Ginny pursue her inquiry. "That girl who answered the buzzer."

Ginny could see cogs whirling in New Hermione's head as she tried to find a way to not answer the question. She could see the very drawings from the chapter on Occlumency in their textbook as New Hermione mentally scanned them.

"Look, Hermione, it's fairly obvious that I've cocked this whole thing up, and that I'm going to have to go back and face Mum's wrath about this entire scenario and that I'll probably be too embarrassed to face you for . . . years, maybe, so you really can tell me, it's quite all right."

New Hermione stiffened, stared hard at Ginny for a moment, and then dissolved. Old Hermione slumped down on her hands, her elbows hard on the table.

"Lydia," she muttered.

"I'm sorry?" Ginny said, probingly.

"Lydia, all right?" Hermione looked up, her cheeks bright pink.

"Lydia your . . . cousin? Roommate?"

"Lydia my girlfriend, Ginny. My girlfriend Lydia."

As suspicious as Ginny had been, she was still taken slightly aback by this pronouncement. Her jaw dropped without her meaning to, and Hermione dropped her face to the table.

"I didn't mean to do that, Hermione, honest," Ginny said quickly. She grabbed another sugar packet and dumped it in her coffee, which was quickly turning into a grainy brown paste. "It's just . . . surprising, is all."

"Is it really that surprising?" Hermione said, her voice muffled.

Ginny thought about it. _Purple blossoms. Long silvery strands. How's Ron?_

"No," she said, and shrugged. "Not really."

But still, this was really something.

"How long have you and Lydia--"

"Six months, all right?" Ginny couldn't tell if Hermione was embarrassed or angry, and settled on both. Unfairly, she thought, since Ginny was in no way outraged, horrified, or particularly shocked. She _had_ played professional Quidditch for two seasons.

"I think that's great, Hermione," she said, and put her hand on the girl's.

"Yes, well, don't go running to Ron," Hermione snapped, very Old Hermione.

"I haven't spoken to him in months," Ginny reminded her. "I'm not going to tell him about Harry, why would I tell him about this? Besides," she continued, "he's got to suspect _something_ when his girlfriend—his alleged girlfriend—doesn't write or anything, and him in another country, practically."

Ginny was pleased with herself for dealing with the situation so well. She was so pleased that for a moment she forgot that she had nowhere to live, and even if she did deign to return to Harry's flat she'd have at least a week of cleaning shards of glass from the corners, not to mention the hours of feigned listening and understanding she'd have to do as Harry tried in his schoolboy way to talk about his feelings.

"So it's good, then, you and Lydia?"

Hermione didn't respond. Ginny watched her crumpled form and thought she detected the faintest heaving of her shoulders. Crying? Why would she be crying? Ginny didn't really give two damns about who Hermione slept with, though she was a bit crushed that she wouldn't have anyone interesting to talk to at future family gatherings. Bill would be there, at least, but with that French bitch of a wife, so that pretty much ruled him out. And George was only half as fun now that Fred—but she couldn't think about Fred. She focused on how totally she had been neglecting Hermione to not even know about this. To not have any earthly idea why Hermione would be crying.

"Hermione?" she said more gently, and reached out to gingerly touch Hermione's hand. The girl recoiled slightly and Ginny snatched her hand away.

"I need a pint," Hermione's muffled voice declared.

"It's ten-thirty in the morning."

"I know what bloody time it is. I need a pint."

Ginny wasn't sure how one requested a pint in a Muggle café. She looked around, confused. A young waiter noticed her and came over.

"Two pints, please," she said. He looked at her expectantly.

"Bitter," Hermione mumbled.

"Two bitter pints, please," Ginny said brightly. The man looked at her askance, but walked back to the bar.

"Pints of bitter, Ginny," Hermione corrected. Old Hermione.

"Oh."

Hermione lifted her face from the tabletop. She had been crying, a little, the tears still glimmered in her eyes. Quite prettily, Ginny noticed. Though there's a certain type of girl who looks prettiest when she's crying. "What's wrong?" she asked.

"It's nothing," Hermione lied. "Just kind of overwhelmed. Wasn't expecting this, you know."

"Me either," Ginny agreed. "But honestly, I'm not upset."

"At all?" Hermione sounded vaguely affronted.

"Not at all," Ginny confirmed. Her opinion seemed to have a negative effect on Hermione, who laid her head back down on the table. The waiter brought two glasses filled with dark liquid and set them on the table. He stared at Hermione for a moment until Ginny handed him some Muggle money. He looked at it, looked at Ginny, looked back at the bill and when Ginny didn't appear to require anything else shrugged and tucked it in his apron.

"You gave him five times more than it cost," Hermione said into the heavily lacquered oak.

"Well, whatever. I don't know how it works," Ginny said dismissively. "Besides, I doubt I'll be needing much more of it, since I'm now headed back to the Burrow."

"Why are you going back there?" Hermione asked. Ginny rolled her eyes. Honestly, some people got so wrapped up in their own problems that they didn't hear a word one said.

"I've broken up with Harry, remember? I don't have anywhere to live."

"Oh," Hermione said. She took a long swallow of her beer. Ginny did the same, trying to blend in, but the taste made her mouth twist unpleasantly.

"How do you _drink_ this?" she said, disgusted.

"It's an acquired taste, that's for sure."

"Give me firewhiskey any day." Ginny slid the pint glass across the table. "You can have mine." Hermione took another swallow.

"I suppose you could stay with me," she said after a long pause.

"Hermione, don't be ridiculous. You've got your life and everything. All I've done is broken up with my bloke and set Rowena Ravenclaw on fire."

Hermione didn't seem to notice the strangeness of Ginny's statement. "Actually," she said, fortifying herself with more bitter, "I've just broken up with my . . . bloke . . . as well."

"She's a _man_?" Ginny said, only half-joking. Muggle London was a strange place, and being a Muggle was a strange business indeed.

"Don't be _thick_, Ginny." Hermione gave a wan smile. Ginny sighed with relief. At last Hermione had smiled.

"When did you do it? She was just there--"

"She was just leaving," Hermione corrected. "We had a tremendous row this morning."

"When?" Ginny asked, already knowing the answer.

"About two hours ago," Hermione replied.

"Hmm," Ginny said.

"Hmm?"

"That's when I dumped Harry," she reminded her.

"Oh," Hermione said and took another drink. Her glass was nearly empty and Ginny nudged her own rejected pint closer to Hermione's hand.

"So what happened?" she asked.

"Socks," Hermione replied. "Lots of things."

"I know exactly what you're talking about," Ginny nodded. "Socks."

"Yeah." There was another silence, though this one was not nearly as loud as before.

"So . . ." Hermione began, twirling her glass.

"So."

"So do you want to stay with me?"

"I promise I won't set anything on fire," Ginny said.

"There are a few things I could do without," Hermione replied, smiling again. Quite pretty, Ginny thought. She could understand why someone would—

_Stop it!_

This new thought had slid quietly into her head, sneaking in through a back door. Ginny tried to flush it out, to send it running back the way it came, but all she managed to do was chase it in circles around her brain. _Very pretty, easy to see why—_

_Stop it!_

Ginny had never particularly thought of any girl in this particular way before. Certainly she had thought some girls were pretty and some girls were not, but that was just a fact, just a set of rules laid out by whoever it was who made the rules about those things. Certainly. Of course, she'd never _not _particularly thought of any girl in this particular way before. It hadn't seemed like a productive use of her time to consciously not think of some girls as pretty, and to consciously not derive some sort of aesthetic pleasure from looking at them. That French bitch was pretty, very pretty, Ginny thought, and the more she thought about it the more she realized that emphatically not thinking about something might be just the same as thinking about it, and what's more—

_Stop it!_

Experiment time, Ginny thought. She looked hard at Hermione, looked at her face as the girl regarded her glass, tried to scrutinize the downcast eyes, the way the lashes nearly lay against her cheek, still damp with tears, down the long plane of Hermione's nose to her soft rosy lips, which as Ginny scrutinized them began to tremble as though they knew they were being looked at.

_Interesting_.

She still couldn't imagine herself kissing them, however. Couldn't imagine pressing her own lips to Hermione's, and in no small part was this due to the twin facts that Hermione had been her best friend for years and Hermione was, ostensibly, her brother's girlfriend, at least to everyone but Hermione and now Ginny. Though the longer she thought about not being able to imagine kissing her, the more the idea shifted to Ginny imagining herself kissing her. Damn her suggestible brain, she thought, mentally smacking the back of her hand. It had gotten her into far more trouble than she cared to think about, most recently that particularly important letter from the International Quidditch League about possibly coming back to play for the Harpies in the upcoming season and which had gone up in a flash of purple flame not two hours before because a split-second idea about setting old things on fire had manifested itself in her reaching for her wand and . . . setting them on fire.

Does that mean I'm going to kiss Hermione? she wondered, and shook her head.

"What's wrong?" Hermione asked, apparently having noticed Ginny's shake.

"Oh—nothing," she said, trying to appear cool.

"So you'll stay?" Hermione ventured, her eyes almost imploring Ginny to agree. Her eyes which grew dewier and more prosaic by the second as Ginny couldn't decide whether or not they actually were, or if it was because she couldn't decide about it.

_Make a decision,_ her brain shouted. _Whatever you decide is fine by me._

Oh, but the decision meant so much! Ginny was fairly certain that if she decided to stay with Hermione she would end up eventually kissing Hermione, if Hermione didn't mind her doing so, all because she couldn't decide if she wanted to. All because the idea was there, and the more she thought about things the more concrete those things became, and the whole reason she'd gotten together with Harry in the first place was because he wanted her and she thought that since he wanted her she must want him, and it hadn't been so awful except for the socks and the books and the bristles from brooms everywhere you looked, and except for the sex which Ginny realized now probably wasn't as good as it ought to have been, and would sex with Hermione be better?

"Yes," she said, decisively. "I'll stay."


	2. Chapter 2

Hermione's flat was probably very nice under ordinary circumstances, Ginny thought as she stepped over a field of crystal shards that had once been a figurine of some kind. As it was, she had to blink slowly to make sure she was in fact in London, and not, through some horrible magical mishap, back at Harry's. Every available surface had been rendered unavailable by virtue of a vast, amorphous collection of objects that appeared, from where Ginny stood, to have no clear beginning or end.

"Ninety-five percent of this is Lydia's," Hermione said as she nudged a stack of blank canvases with her toe, sending them tumbling into a nearby pile of what appeared to be kites.

"Interesting juxtaposition," Ginny observed, treading gingerly to a collection of ceramic toads interspersed with gum wrappers. She tapped one of the toads on its bumpy back and it emitted a loud croak, making her jump.

"You sound just like her," Hermione sighed. "She's an artist," she added by way of explanation.

_Interesting_.

"Really?" Ginny was intrigued. Hermione living with an artist. It seemed wonders would never cease. She looked more carefully at the sea of clutter. The walls were covered with paintings, many of them vibrantly-colored blobs that Ginny couldn't make heads or tails of. In between the paintings were scraps cut out of magazines, tattered photographs, bits of bright fabric. And, inexplicably, the taxidermied head of a wild boar. "That's a nice boar," she remarked. Hermione sighed again.

"I hate that bloody pig," she said, giving it an evil look. "You could torch that, I'd be positively overjoyed."

Ginny kept looking. She'd never been in an artist's house before, though she supposed she wasn't in one _now, _she was in Hermione's house, which had clearly been under sustained attack for quite a long time.

Hermione with an artist. A girl artist, even. Ginny didn't quite know what to think. Old Hermione had never had any appreciable interest in art; the closest Ginny had ever heard her come to voicing an opinion about a painting was when she had told one of the Hogwarts portraits to sod off after getting fresh with her. New Hermione was different, apparently.

"What kind of artist is she?" Ginny asked as she tripped over a block of wet clay. Bits of brownish sludge clung to the sole of her shoe and she looked around helplessly before wiping it on a paint-smeared towel.

"Any kind, I suppose. She paints, mostly."

"Did she paint all of those?" Ginny pointed at the wall. Hermione nodded. "They're . . . nice."

"I don't know what they're supposed to be. Months of pretending they're brilliant when I don't have a bloody clue what they're even _of_." Hermione shoved a stack of magazines off the sofa and sat down. "I can't believe I let it get this far."

"You should see Harry's flat," Ginny said. "It's like George's shop exploded into Flourish and Blotts."

"Yeah?" The idea seemed to cheer Hermione a bit. Ginny patted her on the shoulder.

"Yeah. I don't know how I let mine get so out of control either. But today I realized it was just enough."

"Just today?" Hermione said, a vague look of panic on her face.

"Actually . . . erm . . . actually, no. I'd been sort of planning it for . . . months?"

Hermione looked relieved. "Oh, good. I mean, not _good,_ but you know. Good."

"Good," Ginny agreed. The silence came back, settling comfortably on the sea of junk. "So, is she coming back to get her stuff?"

"I don't see how," Hermione said. "She hasn't got a car or any money or a place to stay."

"Send her to Harry," Ginny suggested. Hermione rolled her eyes. Old Hermione. "What are you going to do with it?"

"To be honest, I was thinking about throwing everything in the street. But that wouldn't be very mature."

"Maturity is for grownups," Ginny said. Immediately after she realized that maybe Hermione _was_ a grownup now, New Hermione was, at least. This realization made her feel very young, suddenly, and aimless. She distracted herself by squinting at some of the pictures on the wall, inventing things for them to be. The more she squinted, though, the clearer the pictures became, and they were all shifting and fluttering into candy-colored portraits of girls, their mouths and limpid eyes and legs and—

_Stop it!_

Hermione shifted nervously on the sofa. "Well," she said, "I suppose you'll sleep in here, if you don't mind a couch."

"Oh no, not at all! I'm just completely grateful that you're letting me stay with you!"

"Of course I'd let you stay!" Hermione said with a vehemence that caught Ginny off-guard. "I've missed you, Ginny."

Ginny gulped and quickly tried to cover it with a cough, which sounded even more artificial, so she leapt up and crossed to one of the paintings. Scarlet and a pale, nacreous purple that made her vaguely uneasy. She shifted her eyes to the painting next to it, which appeared to be a large, toothy flower, the paint thick on the canvas. She eyed it nervously and without knowing what she was doing exactly she reached out a tentative finger to touch the ridges of acrylic. She was a millimeter away when she noticed a small moving photograph half-hidden under a decorative plate depicting the Tower of London. A page from a newspaper—no, it was glossy, from a magazine. She inched the plate over and her mouth dropped open when she saw herself waving wildly, shouting excitedly, surrounded by the first string of the Holyhead Harpies. It was a page from _Qu__idditch Quarterly'__s_ annual Women's Quidditch issue. She lifted the page, trying to look as though she were still examining the carnivorous posy, and what she immediately recognized as a ticket stub fell to the ground. The red and black Harpies logo flashed brightly from the floor.

"I went to your matches," Hermione said behind her. Ginny whirled around, surprised. Hermione with an artist, and going to Quidditch matches? None of it made sense, but so far it was very interesting nonsense.

"You did?" Ginny couldn't think of anything but the completely obvious to say. Was this New Hermione or Old Hermione? She couldn't ask, of course, she suspected announcing you'd set your worldly possessions on fire a few hours earlier was enough near-lunacy for one day. But it made her feel very strange, knowing Hermione had seen her play, and not just at Hogwarts when everybody went or faced the wrath of helping Filch clean the trophies. Ginny had figured nearly every boy she'd ever known had gone to at least one of her matches if only to brag that he'd snogged the Chaser, but she'd never suspected _H__ermione,_ of all people. But here was the ticket, and to the championship match between the Harpies and the Greenwich Gorgons, no less, where even Ginny had to admit she'd played brilliantly and it would seem that _Quidditch Quarterly _had agreed with her.

"Yes," Hermione said, her voice nearly shy. "Almost all of them."

"And did you take--" Ginny stopped. She suspected it would be wrong to invoke the girl's name. She suspected correctly, as Hermione flushed red again and shook her head.

"She thinks organized sports are a tool of oppressive patriarchal mores."

Ginny choked. "She thinks _what_? Hermione--"

"I know. I know. She's a cliché."

Living with a girl artist, going to sports, and spouting feminist rhetoric. New Hermione was very strange indeed.

_But pretty. Very pretty, and if I'd known she was at that game I would've—_

Ginny stopped herself. Besides, if she'd known Hermione was at that game she had a funny feeling she wouldn't have played very well. Or was it because her brain had suddenly become fixated on the idea of Hermione's red lips and those long lashes that forever after would be wet with tears in her memory? Ginny decided she probably wouldn't have been at all disturbed if Hermione had been there, that only in retrospect would it have made her wobbly on her broom, but certainly if the match was tomorrow, which it wasn't, so there was no sense in trying to figure out which came first, the chicken or the egg, and in this case it was definitely the chicken. Or was it the egg? Or was it that oddly lush picture that squinting turned into a rounded cheek? In any case, Ginny's mind gnawed on the scraps of information she had gathered. But for what purpose? She had to stop thinking about even _thinking_ about Hermione that way. Not that there was anything she could do about it now, the idea was there.

"Look at this place," Hermione's voice cut into Ginny's mental seminar. "I mean, _honestly._"

"I hate to sound like a nag, but . . ."

"Why didn't I clean it up?"

Ginny shrugged. "Yeah."

"I tried, for a while," Hermione said, kicking at an empty plastic cup rimmed with green paint. "But I've been so incredibly busy with the book--"

"The book?" _A book?_

"Oh, yes, I'm sorry, I forget that we haven't seen each other in months."

Ginny had forgotten it too. Would have forgotten it, since she had become wrapped in the familiar immediacy of Hermione's presence without realizing it, and she would've forgotten it completely if it weren't for girl artists and Quidditch tournaments and a book.

"Are you writing a book?"

"Sort of," Hermione nodded. "I'm editing one."

"_How To Pass All Your Exams_?" Ginny grinned. Hermione smiled too, briefly.

"No, nothing like that at all, actually. It's an anthology, work by Muggleborn witches and wizards about what it's like growing up with magic in secret."

"Huh," Ginny said. "I'd like to read it."

"So would I," Hermione replied rather ruefully. "But it's nearly impossible to track most of these writers down. I mean, most of them live in relative secrecy."

Ginny was confused. She couldn't imagine living in relative secrecy, especially not as far as magic was concerned. How could you pretend not to breathe? Even if you did breathe what she imagined most Muggles imagined was sparkly dust. She pondered the question, and was about to ask about it when she realized something.

"Hermione, did Lydia know you're a witch?"

Hermione was silent. Ginny's jaw dropped again.

"Hermione!" She mentally socked herself in the arm. If Hermione had lied about who she was that was none of Ginny's business. Of course, part of her insisted that it _was_ her business, despite all this New Hermione nonsensical nonsense she was still _Hermione,_ was still her best friend from years at bloody magic school, and she was a witch, and probably the most talented witch Ginny had ever known personally.

Hermione's head was in her hands again, and Ginny detected the faint heaving of her shoulders. _Great, you've made her cry. This is probably the hardest day of her entire life and here you are, mucking it all up. I wish her day had been as easy as mine, because mine's been just fantastic, dropped a load of deadweight, found my best friend, drank Muggle beer_.

"I'm sorry, Hermione. It's just kind of surprising."

"It's surprising to me too, now. I mean, not _now_, it's been surprising me for a while. I tried to change who I was, you know, because once I left Hogwarts, after everything happened, it all seemed like . . . too much. I mean, I never pretended with Ron, except maybe about how he made me feel, but that was more of a mercy thing, understand. And then when he was away so much, I had so much time to _think_ about everything, and I just . . . I just _couldn't_, Ginny, I just couldn't."

"So how did you . . . how have you been living? I'm sorry, I just don't understand."

"Well you wouldn't, would you. You've always had magic. You grew up with it. I grew up with parents who were dentists."

She had a point. Ginny couldn't conceive of a world without charms to do the dishes, without books that read themselves to you, without broomsticks—_especially_ without broomsticks. She tried to see through Hermione's eyes, which damn it were getting all liquid and pretty again—

_Stop it!_

--and she couldn't for the life of her imagine it. She was acutely aware of a knot forming in her belly, the same kind of thing almost as when Fred—but she couldn't think about Fred. It was confusion and sadness and helplessness, and suddenly her fantastic day began slipping decidedly downward.

"So the book," she said with forced brightness. "That's _some _connection."

"Yes," Hermione sniffled. "I was contacted by someone who read what I'd been writing in the _Weekly Review_—that's a Muggle paper—and they recognized my name and sent me an owl, and oh Ginny, when I saw that owl sitting on my windowsill it was so . . . it was so . . ." She began to cry in earnest. "I hadn't seen an owl except in a zoo for almost two years. And I saw it, and that's when I knew everything I'd decided up to that point was so totally wrong."

Ginny wasn't sure what she was supposed to do. She should comfort Hermione, her friend, but would Hermione know about the sneaky thoughts she'd so recently started having? Would there be something transmitted to her if Ginny were to take Hermione in her arms—

_Give her a hug, you stupid git, it's called giving a hug_.

"Well, I'm glad they sent it to you," Ginny said feebly. "And I'm glad you decided to take the job. How long ago was it?"

"About three months," she sniffled, louder. "And that's when I got so busy, and then Lydia lost her job, something about serving coffee to businessmen offended her, I guess, so she just hung about here all day making everything a terrible mess."

Ginny nodded. "Harry left Auror training to spend more time with me. And he didn't bother to get a proper job either. I was in training for the Harpies a lot of the time, in the country, and when I did come home I was so bloody exhausted that the thought of picking up one more of his bloody socks made me want to scream."

"Yeah," Hermione said. "Exactly."

"So," Ginny ventured after another of those long silences, really, she was going to have to investigate how it happened that some silences yelled in your face and some of them just sat very quietly and read a book, "how are you feeling about it now?"

"Magic?"

"Yes. I mean, are you considering getting your wand out and . . . you know . . ." Ginny did her best swish-and-flick in the air, accidentally sending a tower of batik cushions sailing across the room. Hermione laughed.

"Honestly Ginny, sometimes your Charms talent is more of a liability than an asset."

Ginny was quite prepared to send anything sailing across the room with her patented wandless swish-and-flick technique if it meant Hermione would laugh again. She grinned and glanced at the ceramic toads, which began croaking the Hogwarts theme in five-part harmony. The bubblegum wrappers folded themselves into tiny wax-paper dancers and began waltzing along. Hermione was doubled over with laughter, and Ginny couldn't decide if she liked it better when the tears were happy or sad. She ought to like it better when they were happy, since Hermione being happy in the Old Hermione way was always in every possibility a better thing than sad Hermione, even sad New Hermione with her book deals and _How's Ron?_ but something about sad Hermione evoked such a feeling in her, like she wanted to take her in her arms and sod giving a hug wanted to take Hermione in her arms and stroke her hair and stare at her trembling lip and—

_Shouldn't think this, shouldn't. She's Hermione, for Merlin's sake. Even if she's not shagging my brother, I still ought to think about other things, like—_

But Ginny couldn't think of anything else. The seedling of an idea had taken hold in her brain like it always did, and just like setting her old life on fire—which is what she had done, she realized, along with that letter from the Harpies, which could probably fit in quite nicely with whatever new life she was about to fashion, she'd have to write to the manager and say someone else had done it—it was too late to take it back.

"Come on, then," she said with an air of determination. "Let's cheat." She slung her bag up on the table, crushing several small, dusty pastilles into fine white powder. She fished her wand out from the side pocket and began to march around the room. "What first?"

"Oh, please get rid of that bloody awful animal head," Hermione said, leaping up. "I don't care how, just get _rid _of it."

Ginny pointed her wand at it and it twitched and began to speak. "But Hermione, I love you," the pig said in a voice suspiciously like Ron's. Hermione shrieked and threw a cushion at Ginny. Ginny cackled with mirthful laughter and flicked her wand at it again. The boar's head was enveloped in a bright white flash for a split second, and was gone. "What next?"

Hermione bit her lower lip—_she can do that forever, and stand there like that with her hands on her hips, and I wouldn't complain—_

_Stop it!_

"Well, I don't think we can incinerate them, but I a_m_ sick to death of trying to figure out what those paintings are. They stare at me all the time, you know, and it's like I can hear them accusing me of not knowing the first thing about Art."

It was Ginny's turn to bite her lip. She knew _exactly_ what the pictures were of, but there was absolutely no way she'd let Hermione in on that bit of information.

"So why don't we . . ." Ginny flicked her wand again. The pictures separated from the wall and hung in midair for a moment before stacking neatly in a column on the floor. Another flick and the rest of the detritus on the wall came floating down in a fabric-remnant and magazine-clipping blizzard. Under the raucous, eye-searing collage Hermione's walls were a soft butter yellow. Ginny vaguely remembered them from the one other time she'd been in the flat, and had completely forgotten about how well she thought the shade suited Hermione.

Ginny paused and looked at her. Hermione's eyes were shining again and in that moment Ginny knew she most definitely preferred her happy. "Do you want--" she said hesitantly, and held her wand out to Hermione, who bit her lip again—_happy, oh yes, most definitely—_and paused for a moment before stepping forward and grasping it. Her eyes slid closed and a radiant smile crossed her face. Ginny felt so deliriously joyful at the sight of it that for a moment she forgot to think she wasn't supposed to think what she was thinking and wanted nothing more than to fling her arms around Hermione and make a purple mark on her neck.

Hermione took a deep breath and readjusted her grip on the wand. She flicked it up and down a few times, sending faint white sparks flying. _"Accio wand!" _she cried.

A rumbling from what Ginny assumed was the bedroom, the sound of glass breaking, sharp knocking, and suddenly Hermione's wand streaked into the room. With a smooth movement so deft Ginny for a moment forgot that Hermione was rubbish on a broom and thought about asking her to play a pick-up Quidditch game, Hermione tossed Ginny her wand and snatched her own out of the air.

"Jeez, Hermione, where did you _put_ it?"

Hermione looked sheepish. "I sealed it in a case and put it at the back of my closet under a pile of old trainers." Ginny shook her head and clucked in mock disapproval. "I _know!_" Hermione cried. "I'm _sorry_."

"Well go on, make yourself useful," Ginny said. Hermione took another deep breath and pointed at the stack of canvases.

"_Reducto!_" The canvases obliged, becoming the size of postage stamps. "Oh shit," Hermione muttered. "Where did they go?"

"_Accio terrible art!"_ Ginny shouted. The tiny stack of paintings sped into her hand. "Right here," she said sweetly. Hermione giggled.

"At least it comes when it's called," she said.

They stalked the room, shrinking large pieces of Lydia's belongings and setting them on a tray near the door. Ginny swept the room with her wand, creating a swirling vortex of garbage, old paint cloths, and articles from magazines she hoped it was Lydia who had subscribed to.

"_Vegan Art Monthly_?" she cried, grabbing a paper as it fluttered past her head. "What's a vegan, and why do I have to worry about emu oil in my paint?"

"You don't want to know," Hermione said. "Suffice to say I haven't eaten cheese in half a year."

"Well I'm famished," Ginny asserted. "We should have lunch."

"Is it only lunchtime? It feels like it's been years since this morning."

Ginny knew exactly what Hermione was talking about. Had it really only been four hours since she'd left Harry festering in his own sodden little flat? She shouldn't think that way about him, she decided. He was nice enough, just not right for her. And maybe he couldn't help being a packrat, seeing as how he'd grown up with nothing; she'd been raised by a family of hoarders and look how _she'd_ turned out. So it had only been four hours since she'd left Harry. That was it. But in those four hours—

Hermione flopped down on the newly cleared sofa and propped her feet on the bare coffee table, still clutching her wand. She closed her eyes and sighed deeply, a look of profound satisfaction on her face. "I don't ever want to move from this spot," she said as she opened her eyes and looked around her almost-empty sitting room.

"I would imagine that you don't have any food, though," Ginny pointed out. "At least not any food that _I'd_ want to eat."

Hermione knitted her brows. "You're probably right. Where shall we have lunch?"

"I don't know, I don't live here."

Hermione smiled brilliantly and the secret thoughts poked even harder at Ginny's brain. "You do now," she whispered.


	3. Chapter 3

Ginny hugged her knees tightly. She was sitting rather awkwardly on Hermione's couch, very nearly teetering onto the floor. Yet she didn't move.

The buzzer rang again, insistent. Ginny held her breath until it stopped, then resumed normal respiration. After several long minutes of silence she relaxed slightly, clearly whoever it was, and she knew exactly who it was, had gone. She stood up cautiously, staying clear of the windows in case some new development that she wasn't aware of had given Muggles the ability to levitate. Despite her burning curiosity to see what Lydia looked like she kept her head down and inched toward the kitchen.

As soon as she stepped onto the shining linoleum a loud crash came from the living room. Ginny shrieked and dropped to the floor, faint and unplaceable memories of shattering glass causing her to panic. She knelt low, paralyzed with fear for what felt like an eternity until she heard a high-pitched, nearly hysterical voice shouting from the street.

"I know you're up there, you bitch! Don't pretend you're not! I want my shit back, do you hear me? I know you've got some new cunt already, too! I'm not _stupid_, Hermione, I know she's there! You'd better not let that fucking bitch take any of my things!"

The shrieking continued unabated and Ginny poked her head around the kitchen doorway, sighing at the sight of a rather large rock that was now the centerpiece of the coffee table. Glittering shards of glass festooned the carpet, and the curtains blew gently through the jagged hole in the window. Ginny cocked her head and considered her options. No matter how desperately she wanted to take a look at Lydia's face going to the window was out of the question, especially since the woman could have another rock. Nor could she repair the damage from her current position; not only would it cause a lot of uncomfortable questions when Lydia, who certainly had friends in strange fringe groups Ginny didn't even want to imagine, started spreading it around that her ex-girlfriend's window had fixed itself while she watched, but also her wand was currently jammed rather distressingly under a corner of paving stone.

_Can't even leave things on your own table in the city_, she thought and shook her head ruefully.

Her leg began to cramp painfully. She eased herself into a low lunge and tried to figure out what to do now. Hermione wouldn't be back for at least another hour. Hopefully this crazy girl would be gone by then and she could fix the window, hopefully her wand would let her fix the window and that the crazy girl's cobble hadn't snapped it, hopefully she could restore everything before Hermione's editorial meeting ended. Her first day in the flat and already things were broken. Maybe it just wasn't her fate to live somewhere calm and quiet. She had at least hoped the amount of shattered glass she had to deal with on a daily basis would have decreased somewhat, at least by this point in her life.

It wasn't her fault Hermione's ex-girlfriend was a lunatic. Though it was intriguing, very intriguing, that Hermione—at least Old Hermione—would have turned into the kind of girl who was attracted to loonies.

_Luna's dreamy eyes. Purple marks on Hermione's neck._

Maybe it wasn't that intriguing.

_Am I crazy enough? No, that's ridiculous, mustn't think that at all. _

She hadn't even been there a day, not even eight hours. She couldn't start making herself go mad with wondering about her chances to test out her theory of kissing Hermione. At least not for a week or two, not until she got her clothes back. And right now she had more pressing matters to attend to, like the very urgent need to stand up before the muscles in her legs completely knotted. She hadn't been training at all, not even in the slightest, for weeks, not since she had resigned herself to the fate of marrying Harry and having vaguely unsatisfying sex for at least the next fifteen to twenty years of her life, and probably having children, and what good was having quadriceps like ingots when all you used them for was chasing after kids? Well, she didn't have to worry about it any more. As soon as this crazy girl was gone she was going to go for a run.

She didn't have a key. She would go for a run later. At this moment, however, she needed to move, desperately. The girl was still screaming obscenities through the broken window, and from the tone of her voice Ginny suspected she'd be there for a long time. Her only options were to lay down on the floor of the kitchen and wait it out, and while she'd spent a good part of the afternoon making sure it was absolutely pristine there were still some lines that needed to be drawn, or to sneak around the other corner into Hermione's bedroom. But Hermione hadn't shown Ginny the bedroom yet, which Ginny did find a bit odd, and although Ginny wasn't sure what hideous secret was lurking in there she _was _sure it couldn't have been any worse that what she had found under the bathroom sink earlier, though she felt distinctly like she ought not go into Hermione's room without her around—

_Just make a decision_! her brain cried again. _ Whatever you decide is fine by me._

Ginny glanced again at the broken glass and gaping window. Lydia was deeply involved in a rant about conventional morality and how Hermione just wasn't able to comprehend the sexual revolution she was expressing in her work—_I'm able to_—and how she always knew Hermione preferred cock and she hoped Hermione would be very happy living in domestic servitude and Ginny simply couldn't listen to another word and without really thinking about it she darted around the corner and into Hermione's bedroom.

At first it was unsurprising, the sheer magnitude of junk piled on every available surface, bed included, walls decorated, if one could call it that, with more pasted-on clippings from magazines, mostly female nudes in what Ginny supposed could be called "artistic" poses. There was an awful lot of nudity in the room, she realized, but an awful lot of clothing piled on the floor. It looked like all the girls in the pictures had gotten too warm and thrown their clothes all over Hermione's room.

_Is this what she was worried about? A trove of pornography?_ This was definitely an Old Hermione reaction; Ginny was pretty certain she could feel her blushing already. She tore her eyes from a particularly interesting picture of two girls with long hair—

_Stop it!_

Ginny looked around the room. It wasn't terribly small, but the overwhelming volume of stuff packed into it made it look close, claustrophobic. Her fingers twitched as she forced herself not to start cleaning it at that moment. Hermione mustn't know she'd been in here, even though it was awfully silly for her to be worried about a bunch of pictures.

She poked around gingerly, trying to locate the bed. She thought she'd discovered it under a nest of possibly unwashed trousers, and pushed just enough clutter out of her way to sit down. Lydia must certainly have been something, she thought as she looked up to discover another one of her distinctly labial paintings gracing the entire ceiling. _Wonder if Hermione wants that one gone too._ Ginny rather liked it, in an abstract way. The colors were nice.

After a few minutes Ginny started getting nervous. It wasn't the abundance of genitalia, she told herself, it was that they all seemed to be _looking_ at her. Her previous experience with nonmagical pictures hadn't been like this at all; she'd always found them flat and boring. How were you supposed to care about a picture if all it did was sit there? But these pictures, the expressions on their faces, definitely gave the uncanny impression that Ginny was being watched. Not only watched, but _judged_. _You shouldn't be here,_ they said._ Not in this room, not in this flat, not with this girl, and the first chance we get you can be sure we're telling Lydia. _

"Why shouldn't I?" she said aloud, defensively, and felt immediately ridiculous. They couldn't _hear_ her. And yet . . .

The longer she stayed in the room the more oppressive it got. She had the feeling that if they were magical photographs every single one of them would have turned their bare backs to her and been whispering to the girls next to them. It was so unfair! She hadn't done anything!

_Exactly_, the large portrait of a dark-haired girl wearing nothing but what appeared to be long strips of black Spellotape seemed to say. _You've just broken up with your boyfriend, a bloke, and now you're here? What are you doing here? _

"I wanted to see Hermione!" she said, the embarrassment at talking to a lifeless picture fading. Nobody could hear her, and it was better than sitting and being silently criticized.

_Oh, right. To talk over your memories of school? _

"No, because she's the only person I could think of who would let me stay with her."

_And why, pray tell, would you think that?_

"Because . . . because she's Hermione! She's my best friend!"

_Whom you haven't had a proper conversation with in months. _

"It's not my fault!"

_Of course it isn't._

"But--"

_Leave her alone_, chimed in a leggy blonde. _She's clearly upset about it_.

"Thank you!"

_After all_, the blonde continued, _remember how you felt when you realized you fancied girls?_

"I don't fancy girls!" Ginny cried. "I just thought of Hermione because I didn't think she'd try and make me feel guilty."

_Why not_?

"Well . . . she knows Harry, and she knows me, and . . . and . . . I just didn't think she'd be upset, all right?"

_Because you thought of Luna Lovegood, didn't you_.

"I didn't! Honest!"

It wasn't quite that honest, Ginny realized. But that was ridiculous, thinking of Hermione because she remembered that purple mark and some long silver hairs, that was more ridiculous than arguing with pornography. It had been ages ago, she'd nearly forgotten, she had, at the very least she hadn't thought about it in a long time, Hermione had been with Ron, she'd been going with her brother, there was no reason to think about the shocked look on her face when Ginny had come bursting into the room. No reason at all.

_Didn't it make any impression on you?_ asked a pouty redhead. The brunette biting her earlobe nodded her agreement.

"I don't—I don't know! I don't remember."

_Liar_, said the dark-haired one. Ginny glared at her.

"I'm not a liar."

_Then stop lying about it!_

"Fine! Maybe it crossed my mind once or twice."

_Once or twice_?

Ginny wished fervently that the black Spellotape covering the girl's mouth would do a better job of shutting her up.

"Look, after I saw Hermione and Luna--" she broke off, the memory of that moment flashing in her brain. Hermione's arms around Luna's waist. Luna's face buried in the hollow of Hermione' neck. Luna's dreamy eyes. "After I saw them," she continued with difficulty, "I thought about it, sure. I mean," she added hastily, "I thought about _that_. About what I _saw_. How could I not? It was _Hermione_. I wasn't really _expecting _it."

_And that's all?_

"Yes!" Ginny shouted. "That's _all_."

_Whatever you say_.

"What, exactly, are you implying?" Ginny demanded. The picture was silent. "What?" she said again.

_It's only . . . _the blonde began hesitantly.

"It's only _what?_"

_Well, what you told Harry before you left._

"I told him I was sick of his bloody socks everywhere, what does that have to do with anything?" Ginny's cheeks grew hot.

_And?_

"And nothing!" She leapt off the bed, an indeterminate crunch beneath her feet. "That's _it_."

That wasn't it, and they all knew it. Ginny could see the arch disbelief in their eyes, the ones whose eyes she could see, and the rest of them had become downright haughty. Her blush deepened as she tried to control her breathing. The dark-haired one eyed her coolly, daring her to go on. She turned to the blonde, who appeared to be more sympathetic, but maybe it had something to do with the kitten in her lap.

"I might—I might have told him something else," she muttered grudgingly. The girls seemed to perk up and listen a little more intently.

_Such as?_

"I might have mentioned . . . erm . . . I might have mentioned that sleeping with him was like sitting through exams, but I didn't mean it like _that_."

_How on earth did you mean it, then?_

"Just—just that—oh sod it, I don't know."

_Did he make you . . . you know_, the redhead said with a shyness that was markedly at odds with the angle of her legs.

Ginny's face was on fire. She turned away from the pictures but on the wall opposite was an enormous banner depicting a froth of the same kinds of flowers that had until that morning been plastered all over Hermione's flat, those lush, opulent blossoms that made Ginny warm and nervous all over. She shook her head faintly. "No," she confessed. "Not ever."

_Oh, you poor thing_, cried the blonde.

"Well, I'm out of it now, so I don't have to worry about it any more," Ginny snapped, suddenly quite cross. Who did these women think they were, needling her about her sex life? _They_ were the ones who needed to take a good long—_long, long legs—_

_Stop it!_

—look at themselves before passing any judgment on _her_. It was patently unfair, getting her into this vulnerable position, speaking of vulnerable positions, when she had just left a three-year relationship for a host of reasons, comfortable and not, and had turned up to discover her best friend had become some new, sophisticate version of herself and had just tossed her crazy artist lover out on the street for almost exactly the same reason she herself had left Harry. She felt she was owed just a _little_ bit of compassion, yet here they were, their swollen lips and heavy eyes and smooth bodies taunting her, making her feel all sorts of things. No, she thought firmly, not making her _feel_ things, they were just trying to confuse her, they were just making fun of her, they were just—

Pictures. They were just pictures.

Ginny squeezed her eyes closed and shook her head hard. When she opened them again the pictures had fallen silent, retreated back into the static world of Muggle photography.

With a shock she remembered that she wasn't supposed to be in here at all. She wondered how long she'd been arguing out loud with the glossy images, and if Lydia had gone, and if Hermione wasn't even now on her way up to the flat. She looked around frantically, trying to decide if there was any way Hermione would know she'd been in the room, kicked arbitrarily at some of the piles on the floor and bolted. As soon as the door clicked shut she remembered that Lydia might indeed still be screaming up at the window and she dropped to the ground, banging her knee on the parquet. "Bollocks," she moaned, rubbing the spot.

_Absolute bollocks, Ginny_.

Harry's voice thundered in her head.

_Of all the things to tell a person you have to go and tell them that_.

But she hadn't _meant _it. Of course she had meant it when she had said the things she said about Harry's skills as a lover, that was a simple fact, but of course she hadn't meant it when she said maybe she'd been wrong this whole time and maybe she would be happier with a—

_Stop it!_

But she _hadn't_. She had just said it to make him go away, right? Of course. Of course that's why she'd said it. She hadn't _meant_ it. She didn't fancy girls. Just because she'd never sat down and thought about it, well, not since Hermione and Luna, and that didn't really count because really, how could one _not_ after seeing something like that? And anyway, it had been seven years since that day, and she'd been with Harry, and except for the socks and the sex it hadn't been terrible, not really, but shouldn't it have been a clue that all it was was not terrible and what on earth had made her think that was enough?

Because it wasn't. It wasn't a clue. Ginny shook her head again, hard, trying to pummel the thoughts into dust, but they were very heavy and not at all dry, like the wet lump of clay she had tripped over earlier that day they refused to go anywhere and all they did was sit and wait for her to make something out of them.

But what to make? Ginny had always been rubbish at pottery, she had never been able to decide on a cup or a saucer, a fancy pitcher or decorative platter, had never been able to decide if she should scrap the entire thing and just make a bowl, she had never, ever, ever been able to decide what to do with her clay. But now—

Now she was living with Hermione, at least for the time being, and she didn't have a single dish to her name.

The lump of clay sat there, taking up more than its share of space. The more Ginny tried not to look at it the larger it became, glistening with damp, the pale fleshiness of it making her uneasy. She hadn't meant what she said to Harry. She hadn't. Right?

A loud honking from the street snapped her out of her thoughts. She remembered the paving stone and crouched low, listening. There was only silence from below. Tentatively Ginny crept into the living room. Lydia seemed to have gone. Carefully, ever so carefully, Ginny straightened up and edged around the broken glass to the window. She peered out as inconspicuously as she could and saw nobody below. She exhaled long and slow, relief momentarily crowding out everything else in her head, lumps of clay included. She neatly leaped over the glass and nudged the stone off her wand. It appeared to be intact; a few quick swishes didn't indicate it had been damaged. With another sigh of relief she pointed at the shards on the carpet. "_Reparo_," she commanded, and they sprang tidily back into a single pane.

Ginny flopped down on the couch, exhausted. She was on the verge of dozing off when the scrape of a key in the front door lock caused her to jerk back to consciousness. Hermione was back, at least Ginny hoped it was Hermione and not Lydia who had probably managed to cadge a key at some point in the months of her cohabitation with Hermione. But if she'd had a key she would've just come in before, Ginny reasoned. So she was fairly confident that dreadful possibility wouldn't come to pass.

The door creaked open. It _was_ Hermione, looking nearly as exhausted as Ginny. Her eyes were glimmering faintly again, and the slightest hint of jellylegs overtook Ginny at the sight.

_Stop it!_

"Everything all right?" she said as nonchalantly as she could manage. Hermione smiled.

"Yes, it's fine." she dropped her bag to the ground and stood in the entryway for a moment looking around the room. "Oh, I was so afraid it had all been a wonderful dream and I'd come home and it would still be a complete disaster."

Ginny grinned. "Nope. One-hundred percent fact."

Hermione just looked at her. Looked at her in a way Ginny was fairly certain she'd never looked at her before, but it could just be the influence of all those naked girls still trying to put their fingers in her clay. She wasn't sure if Hermione was actually looking at her as though she wanted to rush over and kiss her, or if it was that theory about Hermione's lips that was making Ginny wonder, making Ginny want Hermione to be wanting to rush over and kiss her. _Would I let her_?

Of course Ginny would let her. If that's what she wanted.

Hermione made no move toward her. Ginny couldn't decide if she was disappointed or relieved. "So how was your meeting?" she asked, perhaps too loudly.

"It was . . . it was fine. No, it was _fantastic_." She knelt down and opened her bag, pulling out an impossibly voluminous stack of papers. Ginny smiled at the sight, infinitely pleased that Hermione had decided to start using her magic again. "I met with Yolanda Candlewick—can you believe she was Muggleborn with a name like that?—and we had a really amazing discussion. She went to Hogwarts, years before we did, and she stopped being a part of the wizarding world almost as soon as she graduated. She didn't even know about Voldemort, Ginny. Didn't even _know_."

Ginny shook her head in amazement. To pretend you were a Muggle was one thing, she supposed, but to have no idea about any of the horrible things that had happened was beyond even the farthest reaches of her comprehension.

"She couldn't handle the pressure of being so different," Hermione went on.  
"She said it was because it was hard enough not knowing _why_ she was different before she found out about it, and then to discover what it was—it was just too much."

Ginny nodded.

"I told her about me," she said softly. "I haven't told anybody about it, really, I've sort of been pretending that I wasn't pretending. And it really made Yolanda open up. And because she did, _I_ did, and it was just . . . it was just . . ."

"Magical?" Ginny said with the hint of a smile.

"Yes," Hermione agreed. "That's exactly what it was." She set the papers neatly on the coffee table. "Where did this stone come from?"

"Oh," Ginny stammered. "It was . . . it was in . . . the bathroom?" She held her breath as Hermione regarded it.

Hermione sighed and shook her head. "Bloody nutter," she muttered. Ginny relaxed. Hermione smoothed the papers with her hand and sat down on the couch. "I still can't get over it," she said happily. "Lydia didn't come round, did she?"

"Well," Ginny said as she tried to decide whether or not to lie. "She did. She rang at the buzzer for ages, but I sat as still as I could until she went away." A half-truth, but Hermione was wound up enough.

"Good," she said. "Though I'm sure we haven't heard nearly the end of it yet. I've still got to decide what to do with all her things. I can't very well give them back to her like _that_," she indicated the tray full of miniature belongings.

"Don't worry about it now," Ginny said. "Just relax. You've had a hard day."

"That's not the half of it," Hermione snorted. "And what about _you_? You must be exhausted!"

"It's early yet," she replied. "I'm sure I'll be knackered in a few hours, though."

"Well, we've got to get you some night things. I get the impression that you didn't take anything of consequence when you left this morning."

"Nope," Ginny shook her head. "I didn't plan particularly well, I'll admit it."

Hermione thought for a moment. "I'd give you something of mine, but quite honestly I have no idea of what's clean and dirty. I've been living out of a trunk for a few weeks, and it's awfully thin in there as it is." She shrugged. "So I suppose we'll have to go shopping."

Ginny shifted her weight uncomfortably. She'd spent nearly all of her Muggle money on the two pints of beer that morning. And Gringotts was closed, she guessed, so there wasn't any way for her to change some of her gold into cash.

Hermione guessed her thoughts. "Don't worry about it. I've got some."

"I've got loads of gold," Ginny said quickly. "Tomorrow I can get it changed."

"Don't _worry_ about it, Ginny."

"I'm not, really, I just want to be a proper houseguest."

Hermione smiled again and looked at her with that same look, the shall-I-kiss-you look that flummoxed Ginny and made her clay wobble. "Loads of gold, you say?"

"Quidditch endorsements," Ginny mumbled bashfully. Really, it had only been two seasons, and granted she _was_ the best Chaser in a generation, or so _Quidditch Quarterly_ would have her believe, but still, sometimes it was awfully embarrassing.

"I know," Hermione giggled. "You're famous."

"I'm not _famous_," Ginny blushed furiously. Well, she _was_ rather famous, all right, but it was only for sport, not for anything _useful_. Still, it did make her vault almost disgustingly full.

"Why _did_ you leave off?" Hermione asked.

"It's . . . it's complicated," she mumbled. "I'll tell you later."

Hermione eyed her suspiciously for a moment, but not the bad kind of suspicious, Ginny thought. The I-care-about-you kind, which did absolutely _nothing_ to dissuade her pesky thoughts. Coupled with the shall-I-kiss-you look, the I-care-about-you suspicion was enough to make her want to run into Hermione's room and beg forgiveness from her pornography.

"So it's settled then," Hermione said briskly. "Let's get you some things."

Ginny nodded her agreement, and Hermione stood, taking another look around the room. "A lovely dream," she said, her eyes settling on Ginny, who gulped and tried not to turn red again.

Lovely.


	4. Chapter 4

Ginny stared at the ceiling. The play of light across the pale, faintly pebbled surface was infinitely distracting. She'd spent the vast majority of her life in the country, away from headlights and streetlamps, and now, laying stiffly on Hermione's sofa, blankets pulled up to her chin, she couldn't stop looking at them. The sweeping arc of light as a car turned the corner. The constant flicker of the lamps, vague shadows cast by people walking on the street below. It was fascinating in its newness.

It was also a welcome diversion from thinking too hard about actually being here, in Hermione's house, and Hermione herself not twenty feet away. Ginny sighed and tugged on the blanket, which was just slightly too short and pulled up over her toes. She tried to focus on the lights, the sound of motors and the murmuring of the people below, anything but Hermione laying—somehow—in the squalor of her bedroom, being stared at by a multitude of naked eyes. She wondered, despite herself, if Hermione ever felt judged by them, especially since Ginny figured most of them were Lydia's idea. Maybe all of them, Ginny didn't know, and anyway it would be perfectly all right if Hermione's tastes extended to the rather shocking, who was Ginny to judge?

_It would be perfectly all right because it meant Hermione cared about sex. _

_Stop it!_

Ginny chastised herself for being prudish, which surprised her a bit. There was nothing wrong with Hermione caring about sex. Merlin knows it actually _mattered_. Ginny herself had no real experience with meaningful sex, or even particularly _good _sex, but she was acutely aware of the lack of it. Harry had been so attentive early on, but attentiveness didn't always equal skill, and for such a renowned wizard he certainly could've done a better job handling his wand—

Ginny snorted, and immediately felt guilty. A wave of awfulness crashed over her. Here, alone in the quasi-darkness, she was suddenly very aware of what had happened. She'd left Harry. She'd just up and left—no that wasn't it. She'd been thinking about doing it for a very long time, but having actually _done _it was something else entirely. And now, in another city, she couldn't help but feel terrible about it. She was dreadfully happy, that was what was so awful. She couldn't shake the relief.

The thoughts poked at her brain again. Was it only relief that was making her so happy? Was it exclusively and without reservation simply because she'd left Harry? Could it possibly—and this was just idle speculation, of course, nothing to get worked up about—could it possibly be because she was now laying on the couch of her best friend, who despite not seeing her in months had welcomed her in? Who, as it turned out, fancied girls and hadn't Ginny used that very thing as one of her reasons for leaving Harry?

No! Of course not! She hadn't _meant _it.

The dark-haired girl from the photograph suddenly blinked into her mind.

_Didn't you?_

"We're not going over this again," Ginny whispered furiously.

The girl shrugged and blinked out again.

"Bitch," she whispered. Who did she think she was, trying to convince Ginny that her motives for coming here were less than wholesome? All she had meant to do was see if Hermione might lend her a couch for a few nights until she thought of something better to do. And honestly, the reason she had thought of it had absolutely _nothing_ to do with _anything_ else. _Honestly_.

But now Hermione was looking at her in that funny melty way and Ginny couldn't stop searching for tears in her eyes, and how was _that_ ordinary? If only she didn't make decisions the way she did, if only she thought things _through_. There's the problem, though, she realized. She thought and thought and thought and it was always those sneaky half-ideas that really had nothing at all to do with the matter at hand, the ones that just popped up of their own accord, that decided things for her. She hadn't ever thought Hermione to be particularly pretty or not pretty, all right, it was a lie, but she had only thought about it that one time, the time after her and Luna, and for the last time, she ought to be given a pass for that one, because for the last time it was unreasonable to expect anyone _not_ to wonder what it would be like, kissing a girl, after they'd just walked into a room and _seen_ it. And she'd only thought about it for a week, at the most, and if she'd happened to be walking around that week preoccupied with it, well it was to be expected. And so what if she'd been jealous of Luna, Hermione was _her_ best friend, and if anyone was going to kiss her it ought to have been—

_Stop it!_

Ginny pinched herself on the arm. She hadn't been jealous! All right, so what if she had, it didn't mean anything. Right? Right. Nothing at all.

So why was she so secretly satisfied that it was _her_ laying in Hermione's living room? She didn't fancy Hermione, that would be ridiculous. Anyway, if she _did_, it's not as though Hermione was going to come bursting out of her bedroom and flinging herself into Ginny's arms and pressing her red lips to Ginny's, not that she'd been imagining it, not that it would _happen_, no matter how much Ginny secretly hoped it would.

_I do not! I do not secretly hope that! _

Hermione's bedroom door creaked slightly.

Ginny's breath caught in her throat. Her heart paused and she went cold all over, except for her cheeks which she was fairly certain were emitting a neon glow. Had Hermione heard her thoughts? Her stomach dropped. It couldn't be. It wasn't possible for Hermione to have picked up on what she had been thinking, no matter how skilled a witch she was she'd never been good at Legilimency, Ginny was quite sure she remembered Hermione moaning over her lack of ability on that very subject.

_Was it Legilimency she couldn't pick up, or Occlumency? _The question suddenly took on an immense weight. If Hermione knew—

"Ginny?" Hermione whispered. Ginny peered up over the edge of her blanket, pulling it up to her nose just in case her cheeks really _were _visible in the faint light. "Ginny, are you awake?"

"Uhh . . ." she mumbled, trying to decide if she should pretend to be sleeping. She realized she'd just answered her own question. _Damn_. "Yeah. Is everything all right?"

_Hardly_.

"I just . . . heard a noise," Hermione said feebly. Ginny's heart jumpstarted and fluttered rapidly as though it were making up for the moments it had been stopped. She hadn't heard anything. That could only mean that Hermione was inventing things, and what reason could Hermione possibly have to invent a reason to come out and see her unless . . . unless . . .

"I was worried it might be Lydia," she continued, "since I'm really not certain of her mental state."

Ginny worked very hard to control her breathing, which at the moment could most closely be compared to childbirth, as Hermione came and sat next to her on the sofa.

"Not certain?" she choked.

"Well . . . I'm sure she took it a lot harder than I did," Hermione said. "Frankly I'm amazed she didn't try to break the door down."

"Funny," Ginny said, thinking of the paving stone. This Lydia was turning out to be quite a piece of work. She couldn't for the life of her understand how Hermione had ended up with her. Though there wasn't a lot she _could_ understand about this New Hermione.

"I don't know what I ever saw in her," Hermione said suddenly. "I mean, she was quite pretty, in a wearing-lots-of-natural-fibers kind of way. And she was an artist, which I must admit was not something I knew much about."

"Maybe because she was so different?" Ginny ventured. Hermione shrugged.

"It's possible."

Ginny said nothing. She waited for Hermione to go on, burning with a curiosity she could barely contain. She wanted desperately to know all about this girl, to know all about why Hermione would've left Ron for her. _Because she never fancied him_, her brain reminded her. _Purple marks on her neck. Long silver hairs_.

"I suppose that must have been it, yes," Hermione said after a moment. "She was quite different."

"How did you meet?" Ginny asked, trying to keep her tone nonchalant.

"At the café where she worked. It was right around the corner from the _Weekly Review_ offices."

"Oh."

"You don't mind me talking about it, do you?" Hermione said, nervous. "I mean, if it's upsetting to you--"

"Hermione, for the last time, it's not upsetting to me. I promise you. A little strange, maybe, but honestly it's only because I had thought you were going with Ron, and if anything I was surprised that you weren't."

Ginny congratulated herself on how natural it sounded. Really, though, it _had_ been the first thing she'd thought, and what was the point of going into more detail when it wasn't absolutely necessary?

Hermione fell silent. She bit her lip. Ginny bit hers, though more to keep herself from licking them, which wouldn't have been at all appropriate.

"I'm not quite sure why I took up with her, really. Not because she was a girl, because I've . . . I've . . ." she stopped again, eyes downcast. _Damn her,_ Ginny thought, _sitting there looking all lovely and tremulous and fragile. It isn't fair, how does she expect anyone to keep their head when she sits there looking like that?_

_Stop it!_

"You've . . ."

"I've always been this way, Ginny. Always. Not that I didn't care for Ron, I did, but it was because he was such a good friend, you know? And the rest of it—oh, this sounds so awful, but the rest of it was I think because I just felt so _sorry_ for him."

"It's a common reaction upon meeting him," Ginny said, trying to lighten the mood. Hermione offered a slight smile.

"Yes, but he liked me so terribly much, and I thought with everything that had been going, with the war and all, it would just be . . . _cruel_ of me to let him down." She stopped and took a deep breath. "I _do_ love him, Ginny, but more like one loves a brother, I imagine."

"You don't have to justify it to me," Ginny said softly. "I'm not going to judge you."

Tears sparkled in Hermione's eyes and Ginny was overcome with that same damnable urge to take Hermione in her arms and comfort her and it was very difficult indeed to restrain herself especially now that Hermione had just come right out and told her she'd always been the way she was about girls while sitting eighteen inches to her right.

The lump of clay in her head began shifting. Ginny had the slightest suspicion that it was starting to take on a definite shape, though she couldn't at all tell what it was.

"It's just been very difficult," Hermione whispered. Ginny couldn't help herself and reached out her hand. Before she knew what she was doing she had laid it tentatively on Hermione's shoulder. _Just comfort, that's all. I'm just comforting her. I've done it a million times, there's no reason for me to get all funny about it now_.

"I'm sure," she said, mentally kicking herself. Bloody good job she was doing of being thoughtful and helpful and all those other fuls she figured she ought to be.

There was another moment of that same deafening silence.

"Anyway," Hermione said, straightening up. Ginny felt a pang as her hand slipped away. "Suffice to say I started going round to the café more often than usual, and Lydia noticed, and one day she asked if I'd like to go with her to a show at some squalid little gallery and oh Ginny, it was so _hard_ to pretend I liked the paintings, but I did, and I must have said something right because . . ."

"Mm-hmm." Ginny didn't want to sound too eager.

"Well, she moved in with me after about a month, and it was all very nice for a while, until I realized I didn't give a damn about art, or politics, or any of that."

_A month? And she'd been living there six? And Ginny had come to visit . . . seven months before? So Hermione had already been seeing Lydia when Ginny had been there?_

"And then with the clutter, it just ended up being too much."

"Right," Ginny said, trying to dig up her recollection of that previous visit. Had there been any clues? Anything to imply that Hermione wasn't the girl she thought she was? Or had Ginny always thought she was the girl she thought she was, had that one day so many years ago made such an impression that it didn't make any impression at all, and instead just became another part of Ginny's picture of her? It must have done, otherwise Ginny felt she should've been at least _slightly_ shocked by the turn of events, and she wasn't shocked at all, not even in the slightest, in fact she was the distinct opposite of shocked. She was curious. She was hopeful.

No, no, no. She wasn't hopeful.

_You are_, the dark-haired girl said. _You're hoping she'll snog you. I don't see why you're pretending._

"I'm not pretending!" Ginny snapped. Hermione looked confused.

"Pretending?" she said.

"Oh—I mean . . . nothing."

Hermione stared at her, mystified. The silence pounded at Ginny's ears. The lump of clay grew more distinctly rounded as she gazed at Hermione's face—_not gazing, just looking_—and the urge to touch her grew stronger and stronger the longer they sat. She grew very nervous. The look just kept _going_, neither one of them breaking it, and Hermione's expression was changing from what-are-you-on-about to that dangerous shall-I-kiss-you and was it just Ginny or did the light from the street catch Hermione's hair in a way that made her look silvery like a veela and was it just Ginny or was Hermione inching closer to her and was it just Ginny or was Hermione about to kiss her like the look promised and—

A car alarm shattered the stillness. Hermione and Ginny leapt apart, giggling slightly. "Sometimes it's like a bloody war zone around here," Hermione offered nervously.

_She had been! She had been about to kiss me! _

Ginny couldn't decide if she was disappointed or relieved.

But why? Aside from Ginny's ever-increasing desire to see exactly what it was that made kissing another girl suddenly so irrepressibly intriguing, why _precisely_ had Hermione been leaning in, which Ginny was absolutely certain she had been. The cold tendril of fear that she had indeed somehow heard Ginny's thoughts crept back into her head. What else could it be? Hermione certainly wasn't interested in her, not that way, Ginny was sure of it. They had been best friends for ages—_which hasn't stopped you_, her brain reminded her, rather unkindly, Ginny thought—and after all, it was Luna she'd kissed in her room those years ago. And Ginny hadn't exactly been a presence in Hermione's recent life, she'd only shown up that day, it wasn't as though _everyone_ was as impulsive as she was, and definitely not Hermione, at least not Old Hermione who took ages to decide on anything, but who knew, maybe New Hermione was different in this way as well. In any case, it was definitely significant.

"Well," Hermione said.

"Well."

"I suppose I should get to bed."

"Yes."

"I've got some things to do tomorrow."

"Yes, of course."

"I'm meeting another possible contributor for the book."

"Good, right."

"Did you have any plans?"

"I'd been thinking I might go round to Harry's flat, get some of my things. Maybe look for a place of my own."

Hermione's face fell just slightly. Or was it just Ginny?

"Oh. Well, there's no hurry, you can stay here as long as you like."

_Could I stay for six months?_

_Stop it!_

"Thanks," Ginny said. "Really, it means a lot to me, you letting me barge in and disrupt your life."

"It's not a disruption, Ginny," Hermione's face softened adorably.

_Stop it!_

"It must be, I mean, with everything that's going on with you I'm sure a houseguest wasn't exactly what you wanted right now."

"You're not just a houseguest, Ginny. You're my _friend_. And I'm so glad you're here. I didn't think I'd have anyone to talk to after Lydia left, and the worry had been driving me somewhat mad." She smiled. "I had hoped I'd be able to talk to you, you know. I was just . . . nervous about calling. I didn't think I'd be able to do it, but now you've solved it for me." She put her hand on Ginny's arm, making Ginny feel warm and uncomfortable and pleased and anxious all at the same time.

"I'll go to Gringotts tomorrow," she said, "and get some Muggle money. And first thing I'm going to do is the shopping, since I was right about you not having any proper food in the house." Hermione laughed. "Is there anything in particular you'd like?"

"If you bring me a decent Camembert I swear I'll have to kiss you," Hermione said and stopped suddenly, blushing. Ginny couldn't tell, but she was fairly positive the shade matched her own. _Thank Merlin for darkness_, she thought.

"Camembert, right," Ginny coughed slightly. "Anything else?"

"Oh just—just anything," Hermione said hastily. "Anything you like."

"Right."

Hermione lingered on the couch for a moment longer as though she were trying to decide what to do. After a beat she stood up and smiled awkwardly. "Well, goodnight," she said.

"Goodnight," Ginny replied. Her brain was whirring insistently, trying to make sense of the past twenty minutes.

Hermione went to her bedroom and paused at the door. "You know what you could get?" she said.

"Hmm?"

"Some chocolate frogs. And firewhiskey," she added. "I really hate Muggle beer."

Ginny smiled widely. "Check."

"Goodnight," Hermione said again.

"Goodnight."

The bedroom door clicked shut. Ginny exhaled, a long, shaky breath. Her mind was racing. Hermione had very nearly kissed her, the more she thought about it the more convinced she became. But why—

She refused to think about why. For the moment, the fact of it was more than enough. Hermione's mouth, soft and trembling, her lips slightly parted, the excruciating slowness of her movement toward Ginny, yes, it had _definitely_ happened, it wasn't just Ginny's imagination. Granted, Ginny's imagination had been in high gear since Hermione had told her about Lydia in the café that morning, since Ginny had suddenly become aware of how awfully pretty she looked with tears in her eyes, since she had realized she couldn't stop wondering what it must be like to lean in and press her own lips to Hermione's, and not since that day so many ages ago had Ginny been so fixated on anything.

_Told you_, the dark-haired girl said smugly.

"Yes, well, just shut up about it," Ginny grumbled. She hated being wrong.


	5. Chapter 5

Diagon Alley was crowded with the usual assortment of witches and wizards. Ginny strolled the lane, investigating new charms and potions in shop windows, perusing the latest in dress robes—not that she ever wore them, but it was fun to look on occasion—and when she reached Weasley's Wizard Wheezes she ducked in the door. George was taking one of his rare turns behind the counter, to stay in touch with the common man, he always said. Ginny suspected it was because he needed the opportunity to try out new jokes. At that moment he was examining a customer whose head had been turned into what resembled a Muggle toaster.

"Yes," he mused, "quite effective. Oh, don't worry, the butter and jam bonus charm is included." The customer looked rather shocked, and jumped when the lever popped where his ear ought to have been. The smell of toast filled the shop, and George looked delighted. "Eight Galleons fifty," he said to the man standing next to the toaster-headed wizard. The man chuckled and dug the money out of a small leather pouch. George looked up.

"Ginny!" he bellowed, causing several heads to turn in her direction. "Fancy seeing you here! Thought you'd left us for a life of solitude and relaxation in the country."

"Yes, well," she said, her ears shaded pink. "I thought I'd come down and see how you were doing."

"Bloody marvelous," George shouted. "Angelina's had a boy."

"Oh George, how lovely!" Ginny cried. She had the vague idea the baby had been due at some point, but tried to act as though she'd been perfectly aware of it. "What's his name, then?"

"Fred," George said, more quietly. "Looks just like him."

"Oh George," she said again, crossing behind the counter. "I'm so happy for you."

"It's nothing," he said, his voice rough. He coughed. "So what brings you in today? Got some smashing new Black Holes. Toss 'em down on the floor and watch your friends disappear!"

"Where do they go?" she asked. George shrugged.

"Haven't the faintest," he said. "But they're selling like mad."

"Well, that's lovely."

"I think so. Going to have to get some new help in the shop, we can barely keep up. How about you? Need some work?"

Ginny shook her head. "I'm thinking . . . I'm thinking of going back to the Harpies."

"Bloody brilliant!" he shouted and chucked her on the arm. "I always said you never should've left."

"Yes, well, it's just an idea I've had."

"How does Harry feel about it? How is that old bugger, anyway?"

"He's . . . he's fine," Ginny said hesitantly. "Look, you know Hermione?"

"No, haven't got a clue who you're talking about, you stupid git."

"Anyway," her cheeks blazed. After Bill, George was her favorite brother. Never gave her a hard time, not any more than was necessary, anyway. "I've just seen her the other day."

"How is she?"

"Oh, she's great. Really. Doing some work in the city."

"Oh? And how does Ronnie feel about that?"

"I imagine he's got more than enough to think about."

George nodded sagely. "Opening a packet of crisps is more than enough for Ron to think about."

Ginny giggled. "Right. Well, I'm just wandering around today, thought I'd drop in."

"Marvelous to see you as always, Ginevra," he said with mock gentility. He bowed. "Tell Mum I've got loads of pictures of Fred, will you?"

"You tell her!" Ginny punched him on the arm. "He's your son, anyway."

"Yes, well, Mum's not too keen on opening any mail I send her way."

"What have you done now?"

"Had to test out the new Maurading Mailbag on _someone_, didn't I?" George grinned. "The Howler I got from that woman . . ."

Ginny punched him on the arm again. "She's never going to come round on the shop so long as you keep destroying her house," she reminded him. "Anyway, got to go, just wanted to say hello."

"Same to you," George said. A young boy walked up to the counter, his fists full of toffees. "Ahh, excellent choice, young sir. 'Scuse me, Gin, but I've got to help this gentleman with his purchases."

Ginny smiled. "See you round, George. Give my best to Angelina!"

"Will do. Now, my good fellow, how would you be paying for these today?" George turned his full attention to the pile of Sickles slowly being deposited on the counter. Ginny waved goodbye and crossed back into the street. She looked around, trying to imagine the scene through Hermione's eyes. Throngs of robe-clad men and women, hauling broomsticks, cauldrons, all manner of mysterious packages. She saw one tiny witch scurry past with what looked suspiciously like half a dragon tail flopping out of her robe. _It must be strange_, she thought. _All this_. Still, she couldn't quite manage to imagine how it would look to someone who had tried to give it all up. She couldn't imagine _giving _it all up. She shrugged, and stopped in front of Quality Quidditch Supplies. The Starchaser Mark VIII stood proudly in the window, the glistening wood of the stick gleaming tantalizingly in the light. She grimaced at the sight of herself next to it, swooping and feinting in the air. _GINNY WEASLEY, STAR CHASER,_ the sign proclaimed. _Mark VIII, Choice Of Holyhead Harpies: In Stock Now!!_ She sighed and shook her head. _Rather famous, all right_.

Two girls, not older than fifteen, Ginny reckoned, walked out of the shop clutching wrapped brooms tightly to their chests. One of them saw Ginny and stopped dead in her tracks, her jaw dropping. She looked slowly from the advert back to Ginny and whacked her friend on the arm. They both stood, frozen in the doorway.

"Hullo," Ginny said. The girls squeaked and dashed off.

Ginny moved up the alley, stopping at Flourish and Blotts. A book in the window caught her eye. _Magic For The Beginner_. A very old copy, probably a first edition. Ginny didn't care about such things, but at that moment she felt Hermione would appreciate the gift. She ducked in and moved to the counter.

"I'd like the book in the window," she said to the ancient, papery man across from her. He eyed her suspiciously. Granted, she _did_ look rather grubby, but still, it was no way to treat a customer.

"It's a hundred and fifty Galleons, young miss," he wheezed. Ginny raised her eyebrow and pulled her money pouch from her pocket.

"Wrap it, would you?" she said archly, depositing the shining coins on the counter. The old man grumbled as he fetched the book from the window, grumbled as he shuffled to the back. Ginny could hear him grumbling as he wrapped the book. "Make it look nice," she called. "It's a gift." The old man grumbled in response.

Back on the street she tucked the book into her bag, which threatened to come apart at the seams. She mentally checked over the items she'd purchased—_Chocolate Frogs, two bottles of excellent firewhiskey, a bottle of Bettina's Best Bathroom Cleaner_—and nodded. Good. Now all she had to do was change some money and she'd do the rest of the shopping. She got slightly nervous at the thought of shopping in a Muggle grocery, and wished Hermione had come along just so she could get the cost sorted. _You live in Muggle London now,_ she reminded herself. The thought made her feel slightly giddy. Not just living in Muggle London, but living in Hermione's flat. What a difference a day made, indeed.

As she was leaving Diagon Alley she passed by a curio shop. A small statue of Rowena Ravenclaw was featured in the window, part of a set of collectible History of Hogwarts figurines. Her stomach clenched. _Harry_.

She'd thought about going back to the flat that day to collect some of her belongings, but the longer she'd tried to decide about it the less certain she was it was a good idea. He was bound to still be upset with her. And if he wasn't furiously angry, he'd probably be weepy and remorseful and want to talk about it. Her day had been going far too well to have it punctured by a discussion about feelings, especially now that her feelings were so distinctly the opposite of anything she'd want to discuss, especially with Harry. Still, she knew it would have to happen eventually.

_Just not right now. _

It was as though Ginny was walking around bewitched, as though some marvelous charm had been cast over her life in the past thirty-six hours, and if she returned to Harry's flat she'd find it had all been a dream. _A lovely dream_, Hermione's voice whispered in her ear. No. There was no way she could take that chance, especially not with the possibility of being kissed, properly, so tantalizingly present.

Ginny had woken up that morning after long, lucid dreams of it. Of kissing Hermione. Of being kissed by her. It was lovelier than she could have imagined, not at all sordid, not that she would ever have possibly thought kissing Hermione would be sordid, not the _act_ of it anyway, but she realized that at the back of her mind she'd been terribly nervous about the prospect because she didn't want Hermione to think _her_ sordid. That she was taking advantage of Hermione's confession.

_But she had moved in, ever so slightly, she had, she had been about to—_

"Miss Weasley?" It was the pair of girls from Quality Quidditch. They looked very nervous indeed. Ginny smiled.

"Hullo again," she said.

"Umm . . . might we . . ." the shorter one held out a piece of parchment.

"Of course!' she grinned. "Always a pleasure. And what's your name?"

"Felicity," the girl choked.

"Felicity" Ginny repeated, signing the parchment. "And one for your friend?"

"Hermione," she gasped. Ginny paused, a faint blush creeping into her cheeks.

"Lovely name," she said after a moment. "I've got a friend named Hermione."

The girl's mouth dropped open. "_Have _you?" she stammered.

"Yes, I have. Hopefully you're better on a broomstick than she is," she added.

"Oh yes," Felicity cried. "Hermione's a _brilliant_ Seeker. She's going to play for Hufflepuff next year."

"Wonderful!" Ginny signed the paper. "Best of luck to you. I hope to see you both playing in the World Cup one of these days."

"Thank you," they said in unison, their eyes wide.

Ginny couldn't help giggling as they backed slowly away, staring at her. Sometimes being rather famous wasn't half bad.

She pushed through the outer door of the Leaky Cauldron into the bright street. All right. Time to find something proper to eat. She peered up and down the road, trying to find a shop. Farther up she thought she spotted one. _Fromages du Monde_, the banner read. Wheels of cheese decorated the window. _Get me a decent Camembert and I swear I'll have to kiss you_. Ginny gulped and pulled the door open.

"I need a really decent Camembert," she said to the attendant, trying not to look as nervous as she suddenly felt. The young man nodded and ducked into the back.

"This is a lovely one," he said reappearing with a creamy wedge. "Just in from France yesterday."

"I'll take it," Ginny said hastily. "Sounds marvelous."

"Would you like some wine? I can recommend a perfect--"

"Yes," she cut in. "Whatever you suggest."

The young man nodded and pulled a bottle from the rack on the wall. He totaled the purchase and Ginny listened very carefully, trying to get the amount right on her first try. When the attendant didn't look at her as though she were brain-damaged she congratulated herself. _I might make it after all_.

The cheese felt distinctly heavy in the plastic shopping bag. It was weighted with possibility, Ginny thought, then shook her head. _Ridiculous. It's just a cheese_.

_But Hermione said—_

_She was just joking,_ Ginny told herself firmly. _It's just a cheese_.

_But . . . _

The wedge thumped against her side as she walked. _Kiss her_, it insisted. _Kiss her. Kiss her_.

"If you're going to keep this up the whole way home," Ginny hissed, trying to her hardest look inconspicuous, "you can just forget about it."

The cheese fell silent.

As Ginny slipped the key into the lock—Hermione had retrieved a spare from somewhere in the depths of her bedroom—she realized that in her nervousness she hadn't gotten anything other than the cheese and the wine. Oh well. Hermione would be back soon, perhaps she'd accompany Ginny on a trip to the grocer. She set her bags on the kitchen counter and laid her purchases out. The Chocolate Frogs would go on the coffee table, she decided, and the firewhiskey could sit on the sideboard. The bathroom cleaner would get tucked in the cupboard. She whistled as she put things away. The feeling of setting things in their proper places was one she relished; there were few things quite as lovely as the feeling of putting things away. _Some things are that lovely_, she thought as she set the cheese on a plate in the refrigerator.

The neatly-wrapped book remained on the counter. Ginny wasn't quite sure how to present it to Hermione, she didn't want to make a production out of it. She left it where it sat and took the bottle of cleanser into the bathroom. As she passed by Hermione's bedroom door she stopped and narrowed her eyes. Taking a deep breath she cracked it open and stuck her head inside.

"I bought her a cheese," she announced to the pictures.

_Oh, lovely,_ the blonde replied.

_Told you_, the dark-haired one said again.

"It's just a cheese!" she cried.

_But you felt you had to let us know?_

"Well . . . yes," Ginny said uncertainly. "I thought you'd be pleased."

_Very_, the redhead piped up.

_Best of luck_, the blonde called as Ginny shut the door.

She wondered how long it would be before Hermione decided Ginny could see her bedroom.

Ginny went back into the kitchen and stared at the wrapped package. She stared at it for several minutes, trying to decide what to do. She had narrowed it down to laying it casually next to the Chocolate Frogs or placing it by the firewhiskey when she heard the rattle of the doorknob.

"Ginny?" Hermione called. "Oh good, you're here."

"I didn't get any food," she said.

"Oh—well, that's fine," Hermione said, slightly amused. "We can go later."

"How was your day?" Ginny asked as Hermione came into the kitchen. She had the strongest feeling that she ought to kiss her hello.

_Stop it!_

"Oh, it was all right. My appointment got cancelled but I went in to the publisher's office to work over a few things. I really think this book could be quite good, you know."

Ginny nodded. "I have no doubt," she said.

"What's this?" Hermione picked up the package. "Obviously you did _some_ shopping today."

"Oh—yes," Ginny said hastily. "I went down to Diagon Alley and picked up a few things. There's some Chocolate Frogs on the coffee table," she said trying to direct Hermione's attention away from the book.

"Lovely! I haven't had one in _ages_," she said, setting the book down. Ginny breathed an inward sigh of relief. "How was Diagon Alley?"

"It was . . . oh, you know" Ginny replied, before remembering that Hermione might _not_ know. "I stopped in and saw George. He and Angelina Johnson were married, you remember."

"Of course I remember," Hermione called. "Oh, I've gotten Elucidas Capes. Used to have about twenty of him."

"They've had a son," Ginny continued.

"Really? How wonderful!" Hermione reappeared in the kitchen, a bit of chocolate at the corner of her mouth. Ginny tried not to stare at it, tried not to imagine leaning forward and licking it off, really, it wouldn't take a moment—

_Stop it!_

"They're calling him Fred," she said with a slight twinge of sadness. Hermione must have noticed. She was putting her arm around Ginny, which made the sadness quickly change into something else, something very much different from sadness.

"Oh Gin," she said.

"It's great," Ginny said hastily. "I'm awfully happy for them."

"So am I." Hermione licked the chocolate from her mouth and Ginny couldn't decide if watching her do it was better than doing it herself. "I'm famished, do we have anything at all to eat?" She opened the refrigerator. "Oh--"

Ginny turned scarlet. "I thought . . ."

Hermione didn't say anything. _That bloody silence again_. Ginny saw her take a deep breath. _Would she?_ Hermione pulled the plate from the refrigerator and set it on the counter. She turned to face Ginny. _She would, she was going to_. She bit her lip—_bloody hell_—and leaned in, giving Ginny a swift kiss on the cheek.

"Thank you," she said, her voice soft but edged with a nervous giggle.

"It's nothing," Ginny said, trying to maintain her cool. It had only been her cheek, but still she'd know forever what Hermione's lips felt like. They were dry, but very warm, and soft, they were ever so soft, Ginny could still feel the spot on her cheek where Hermione had pressed her mouth, and she resolved to never wash her face again.

There was a moment of awkwardness more intense than anything Ginny had ever experienced. At last, Hermione turned away and began fishing in one of the drawers for a knife. "I think we've got some crackers around here," she said brightly.

"I got some wine to go with it," Ginny said at the same time.

"Wine, really?"

"Well, I don't know what it is. The man at the shop recommended it." Ginny held bottle out.

Hermione examined the bottled. "Have you ever had champagne before?" she asked. Honestly, if there was any more nervous tension in the room Ginny thought she'd simply explode.

"I think, maybe. Didn't they have it at--" _Tonks and Remus's wedding. _

Hermione picked up on her thought. "Yes, I think so," she said quietly.

"Anyway," Ginny said, changing her tone. "I didn't know what it was, I just took whatever he handed me. I supposed he'd know best what went with the cheese."

"I suppose he would," Hermione agreed. "Shall we?"

"By all means," Ginny said.

"Fetch me a towel, would you?"

"A _towel_?" Ginny was confused.

"Yes, there's one just there." Hermione pointed at a drawer. Ginny retrieved a tea towel and handed it to her. Hermione wrapped it around the cork and pulled. The soft pop made Ginny jump.

"Is it supposed to do that?" she asked.

"It's fizzy, Gin," Hermione giggled. Ginny blushed, slightly embarrassed.

"Oh, right."

"Here, get us some glasses. I'm afraid I don't have anything proper for champagne, but I suppose we can make do."

Hermione poured the bubbly liquid into the tumblers Ginny handed her. "Here's to new beginnings," she said.

"New beginnings," Ginny echoed. The champagne tickled on her tongue. _Much better than the beer_, she thought. _Quite sweet._

"Like it?"

"Mm-hmm," Ginny said.

"It goes to your head rather quickly."

"Lovely."

They stood silently in the kitchen sipping their champagne, pointedly not looking at each other. _It does go to your head quickly_, Ginny thought. _It must be the champagne, because I'm half a second away from—_

"So what's in the package?" Hermione asked.

"It's . . . well, it's a present."

"Oh?"

"For you," Ginny said weakly.

"Really?" Hermione picked it up.

"It's nothing, really, just something I saw today."

"It's not nothing, Ginny. You didn't have to get me anything." Hermione's voice was low, soft, the aural equivalent of the shall-I-kiss-you look, and it was making Ginny's legs turn to jelly.

"Really, it's nothing."

"Well, give me a chance to open it before you say it's nothing," Hermione teased gently. She set her glass down and carefully prised the package open. Ginny held her breath.

Hermione didn't say anything. She smoothed the wrapping paper on the counter and set the book gently down. She turned to Ginny, her eyes glittering.

"I just thought it was kind of funny, you know, sort of a joke, I'm sorry if it's stupid, honest, I just saw it in the window and thought of you, and I think it's a first edition, but really, I didn't know if you'd like it or anything, and if you don't that's all right, I only thought--"

Hermione took a step forward, put her hands on Ginny's cheeks, leaned in, and kissed her sweetly, for real, right on the lips.

Ginny thought she would faint.

_So maybe she had meant it._

Ginny couldn't think. She didn't _want_ to think, didn't want anything except for Hermione to keep kissing her. It was a thousand times better than anything she could have dreamed, she decided, the softness of her lips, how warm it was, how absolutely, indescribably lovely, Ginny's eyes slid closed, her hand reached up and settled on Hermione's, she didn't ever want Hermione to stop kissing her, didn't ever want her to stop—

Hermione backed away suddenly, her eyes downcast. A tear slipped down her cheek. "I'm sorry," she whispered hoarsely.

"For what?" Ginny's breath caught in her chest. Had she done something wrong? Sure she'd never kissed a girl before, but none of the boys she'd snogged had ever complained, at least not to her.

"I shouldn't have done that." Hermione's hands were trembling. So was her lip, Ginny saw, and the tears were falling at regular intervals.

"Bollocks," Ginny said decisively.

Hermione looked slightly taken aback. "Bollocks?" she said.

"Yes," Ginny replied. "Absolute bollocks."

"What?"

"Bollocks. About not having done that."

"But it wasn't—you're not—I shouldn't have--"

Ginny had no idea where her certainty was coming from. She was quite sure it was the champagne, or the cheese, or _anything_ other than her. She was, actually, quite amazed she was still standing up. She was also vaguely concerned that she was being a git again, something she was quite good at, especially in situations where she ought to be sensitive and quiet and calm and understanding. Yet whatever it was that was making her mouth move pressed on, no matter how desperately she wanted to be anything other than what sounded rather horrifyingly like a petulant child.

"Don't be sorry, you silly girl." She couldn't stop herself. "After all, it was only a kiss."

This wasn't the right tack at all, Ginny thought with increasing despair. Why couldn't she be clever? Why could she _never_ be clever?

"I'm—I'm so sorry," Hermione cried, and turned to go.

_Being a ridiculous wanker stops right now,_ Ginny insisted to herself. She reached out and caught Hermione's arm, pulling her back.

"Ginny--"

But Ginny stepped forward, pushing Hermione against the counter. Without letting her brain intercede she pressed close against her and kissed her, _properly_, she thought, her mouth working just slightly, her head tilted exactly right, her aim dead-on.

Hermione went limp.

_Tremendous_.

Ginny was determined not to ruin it. She lessened the pressure on Hermione's body and put her hand gently to her face, almost—not quite—stroking Hermione's cheek with her thumb. She—and now her brain was silent, as dumbfounded almost as Ginny herself was—very slowly, very carefully, slipped her tongue out, a cold shiver running across her skin as Hermione's lips parted.

_Bloody hell_.

After an eternity that was not _nearly_ long enough, Ginny stepped back. Hermione was bracing herself on the counter, holding herself up, her breathing shallow. A flicker of pride flushed through her. She bit her lip, delighting in the faint saltiness that clung there.

Hermione blinked slowly and looked at Ginny in a way that suddenly made her feel very anxious. Her expression was unreadable, Ginny couldn't decide if it was good or bad, and all the lovely and wonderful things she'd been feeling disappeared in a flash. She knit her eyebrows, afraid almost to breathe.

"Ummm . . ."

Hermione stood up, moving slowly as though the air were made of water. Ginny was petrified, panicked that she'd done something irretrievably incorrect—_like you always do, brilliant work_—and Hermione was moving nearer again, coming closer to her, Ginny had no idea if what she'd done was brilliant or horrible, and suddenly—

Hermione grabbed Ginny's hand and pulled her into the living room. _Oh, fantastic, we're going to have to Talk about it, I didn't go to Harry's flat because I really didn't want to have to Talk about anything today and now I've gone and fucked up what could've been the loveliest thing to ever happen to me, bollocks bollocks bollocks—_

Hermione sat down on the couch and tugged Ginny's hand. _Why isn't she saying anything? How much trouble am I in if she isn't even saying anything? _Ginny sat next to her, her limbs made of very heavy, very cold clay. She couldn't bring herself to look at Hermione, afraid of what she might find on the girl's face.

Hermione tapped her on the shoulder, still silent. With more dread than she'd ever felt, even more than she'd felt during all the awfulness of war, she turned to face her and—

Hermione flung herself into Ginny's arms, capturing her mouth in the most perfect, amazing, lovely, wonderful, really quite excellent kiss Ginny had ever experienced.

Maybe she didn't mind being wrong _all_ the time.


	6. Chapter 6

Her forearm was turning a lurid sort of purple, and pain announced itself in her brain, yet Ginny continued to pinch her arm

She couldn't stop pinching herself. Her forearm was turning a particularly lurid shade of purple and pain jabbed at her brain, yet she couldn't stop doing it.

"Stop it!" Hermione said, flicking Ginny's hand away. "You'll do yourself an injury!"

"I've fallen from a broomstick while forty feet in the air," Ginny said, flicking Hermione in return. "This isn't an injury, it's a _decoration_."

"Anyway," Hermione sighed, "it's a bit disturbing, I won't lie. I mean, people _talk_ about pinching themselves to see if they're dreaming, but usually it's just an _expression_."

"That's most people," Ginny said, and poked at her bruise again. Hermione laughed, and grabbed her wrist.

"You're not most people, I suppose," she said with a hint of slyness.

"Miss Granger, you know very well I'm not most people," Ginny said, twisting around on the couch. "After all, _most _people don't get to do this," and she kissed her. "At least I hope they don't."

"They don't," Hermione confirmed.

Ginny pushed herself up slightly and looked at Hermione's face. She examined it carefully, storing it. _In case it's a dream. In case I wake up in Harry's bed in a moment with his arm flung across my face. In case I wake up and I don't even remember why I remember her face so well, at least I'll remember it, and even though I don't know why at least I will, and that's good enough, at least right now, at least—_

"Ginny?" Hermione asked. "Where are you?"

"What? Oh, nothing, I'm sorry. Just thinking."

Hermione's face clouded slightly. "Are you really all right? With this?"

"I'll admit it's rather sudden, but honestly, for the last time, and absolutely one-hundred-percent, yes, I'm all right. One might say," she added, leaning in and planting another kiss on Hermione's mouth—_could do this forever, certainly_—"I'm great."

"I just don't want to think you're doing this out of pity or something,"

Ginny frowned. What did she have to do to convince Hermione she wasn't pretending? Because she wasn't, really, though she still couldn't decide if what she'd told Harry was entirely true, or if she only fancied Hermione. She couldn't decide if she ought to test out this New Ginny on another girl, not that she'd _do_ anything, not when she had a lovely girl who seemed, inexplicably, breathlessly, to be her very own.

And just how did Ginny know that Hermione was her very own? She had to keep remind herself that it had only been yesterday that she'd come buzzing at her door, it had only been yesterday and that the day before she'd been sequestered in a tiny flat in the middle of nowhere, with a boy she probably would grow to quite like again if only she'd somehow manage to get _away_ from him for a little while. And she _had_ gotten away. Had gotten away quite dramatically, in fact. But still, it didn't answer the question.

Suddenly, the lump of clay in her brain which had been forming itself into something indisputably distinct imploded in on itself with a flabby squelch. Maybe Hermione was so concerned that Ginny was pretending because _she_ was pretending. Maybe Hermione _wasn't_ really so happy that Ginny was currently pressed on top of her, their fingers entwined, maybe Hermione was being polite—

_Don't be so bloody stupid,_ the dark-haired girl popped back into her brain, perched precariously on the lump of clay. _Not everybody volunteers intimacy just because someone else asked for it_.

Ginny was hurt. That wasn't at all necessary. She'd done it, she'd snogged Hermione, and if that wasn't enough for that taped-up bitch, well, Ginny didn't know what was. Short of tearing Hermione's clothes off and—

Ginny stopped herself. She hadn't actually projected herself beyond this moment. _Would Hermione expect her to—no, that wasn't right. Would Hermione want her to? Did she want to? What did she want to do? If she did want to do it, what, precisely, was it that she wanted to do?_

Don't look at me, the dark-haired girl shrugged. Ginny glared at her again. Who else was she supposed to look at? Hermione. Hermione, you sodding idiot.

Oh. Yes. Hermione.

She blinked and looked again. Hermione was eyeing her with something very near to anxiety. "You make me awfully nervous when you go off like that," she said.

Ginny sighed and laid her head down in the hollow of Hermione's neck. It smelled lovely, like clean straw and flowers, and something else that was far less innocent that made Ginny feel slightly giddy. She'd never paid particular attention to the way girls smelled before, except in the changing room after matches to loudly complain about the distinct odor of feet, but she had the definite impression that it would easily become one of the most intoxicating of scents. At least Hermione's, which was lulling her into a sort of blissful half-sleep, granted it _was_ almost midnight, and her position was quite comfortable, and Hermione's presence, beyond the exhilarating novelty of it, was quite comforting.

"Ginny?" Hermione whispered.

"Mmm?"

"Thank you."

"For what?" she mumbled. _Oh, she's going to get all choked and emotional,_ Ginny thought. She hated it when people got choked and emotional. Even when they'd obviously earned it, and had every right to be, but quite honestly there were few things that made her more uncomfortable, and right now she was so _terribly_ comfortable, tears were one thing but going all soggy and mushy and—

"Just . . . for." Hermione kissed the top of her head.

_That was painless. _

Every single thing Hermione had done since Ginny had met her in the café had been so distressingly spot-on that Ginny worried for a moment that it was a spell. Or a dream. Or something else equally unreal. _How is she so good at this? I'm rubbish at relationships. Relationship? Is that what it is? Already? That can't be right. I don't want to rush her—myself. I don't want to rush myself. I've just gotten out of a terribly dull situation, I ought to want to run around and cause trouble and be a single girl about town. Oughtn't I? But she smells so good, and her kisses are so lovely, and it's Hermione, for Merlin's sake, but it's New Hermione, and I can see the one I knew more and more every minute, so really, it's just Hermione. And a relationship? A proper one? With me? She's so—_

"Ginny," Hermione's voice was sleepy.

"What?"

"I can hear your brain working and it's keeping me awake."

_She can't really—no. Stop being such. A. Bloody. Idiot. _"Sorry," she whispered.

"Just go to sleep, silly girl."

"Right." Ginny nestled as close to Hermione as she possibly could, her head resting on the swell of Hermione's breast—_too tired to think about that, must remember to think about it tomorrow—_and closed her eyes. After half a minute of listening to the steady thump of Hermione's heart beating beneath her ear, Ginny slipped into unconsciousness.

When she woke, she had a moment of panic. Where was she? Then she saw the winking face of Elucidas Capes beaming up at her from the coffee table and remembered. _Home_. The thought made her giggle. But where was Hermione? _Relax. Just stay calm. It's her flat, not as though she'd up and run away._

Ginny congratulated herself on not panicking further. She stretched, yawned, and blinked several times. _Cup of coffee, that'd be lovely_. She padded into the kitchen. A note was attached to the refrigerator door. _Gin—gone to Bristol to meet a contributor. Back this evening. Make yourself at home (and get some bloody clothes!)_

She grinned. She didn't smell _too_ bad, the cleaning charm she'd been using might be a bit on the lazy side, but still . . .

Ginny fiddled with the coffeepot, trying to make it work, but gave up on her quest to discover how to use electricity properly and fetched her wand from the living room. As she was crossing back to the kitchen she glanced out the window and stopped. There was a girl standing across the street staring at her. Ginny shook her head. That couldn't be right. Who on earth would be staring at her? Nobody knew she was even _here_, not that anyone would _care_—well, they might care, but she doubted they'd care enough to trundle all the way to London just to make a point.

No. This girl was _definitely_ staring at her. Ginny gasped. It must be—

She ducked just in time to escape being irreparably maimed by a large rock that came hurtling through the window. _For someone who thinks sport is the tool of evil she's certainly got a good arm_, Ginny thought briefly, before cursing the damage. _It was a perfectly good window, there was no need to break it again. After I took the trouble to fix it_—granted, it wasn't much trouble, but it was the _principle_ of the thing—_and this crazy bitch has to go and do it again._ She narrowed her eyes. She'd be damned if she'd let some lunatic ex-girlfriend of her—_best friend, best friend, even if we did spend two hours—_

"Oi!' she shouted out the window. "Why don't you use the bleeding _doorbell_? That's what it's there for, for fuck's sake!"

The girl looked shocked, then slightly confused. Ginny could see her trying to maintain her fury, but clearly Ginny's response had thrown her off base.

"And hurry up! I can't wait all day for you to decide whether or not to be a decent human being, I've got to cover this bloody window!"

The girl's expression became plainly befuddled, and she started across the street as though she were being impelled to go by a force she didn't quite understand. _You just wait, girlie_, Ginny thought with only the slightest hint of mischievous malice. The buzzer rang and Ginny unlocked the door. Only when she heard Lydia's footsteps just outside did she get nervous. What was she doing? Hermione would be _furious_. _I could just Confound her_, Ginny reasoned. _It'll be fine_.

She took a deep breath and put her hand on the doorknob. _Shit, her things!_ Ginny snatched the tray of tiny items and looked around frantically before shoving it under the sofa. She swept the remains of the Chocolate Frogs from the table and kicked them under as well. Taking a final glance around the room she decided Lydia would probably be so shocked by how tidy it was that she wouldn't notice any stray magical knickknacks, and opened the door.

And froze.

Lydia froze.

They stared at each other.

_Bloody hell_, Ginny thought.

Lydia, while a good three inches shorter, could easily have passed as Ginny's suspiciously identical sister. The hair was a bit different, but that didn't matter so much as its dark red hue, and granted Lydia's nose was just _slightly_ more upturned, but those were really only things one would notice if one had spent one's entire life staring at _that _face in the mirror.

"You're--"

"Bloody hell," Lydia gasped.

Ginny was speechless. After a moment she shook her head slightly and stepped back, letting Lydia enter the flat.

They circled each other warily, like two predators meeting in a clearing. Ginny couldn't get over the shock of Lydia's appearance, and neither, it seemed, could Lydia. They said nothing to each other, just kept circling, looking each other up and down. Finally, Lydia stopped.

"At least she's got good taste," she said.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Ginny huffed, knowing exactly what it meant.

"What are you, blind?" Lydia said incredulously. Her voice was fluty, but not in an attractive way, with a harsh lower-class accent that Ginny was fairly positive she was putting on.

"I'll thank you to not be any ruder to me than you already have," Ginny said, trying to disguise her astonishment with superiority.

"Whatever," Lydia said dismissively. "Where is she?"

"Not here."

"Obviously. And who are you?" She spoke in an imperious way that grated on Ginny's nerves. She had the girl marked immediately as the type who, when you pointed out a mistake, managed to blame the entire thing on you. Had she been a witch Ginny would've pegged her for Ravenclaw, probably, they were so intellectual and arrogantly clever in exactly the way that Ginny despised. Only Ginny doubted she was funny like her few Ravenclaw friends had been. Ginny could tell by the way she held her mouth that Lydia probably couldn't take a joke.

"I'm--" Ginny paused. Who _was_ she? "I'm Hermione's friend from school. Ginny."

"Huh."

"You're Lydia."

"Quite. Where are my things? What have you done with them? Where's Hermione?"

Ginny could understand precisely why Hermione had kicked her out. She couldn't, however, understand how Hermione had managed to live with her so long. Twenty seconds in her presence and Ginny rather wanted to strangle her, if it wouldn't have felt so eerily like suicide.

"She's not here, I already told you. " Ginny crossed her arms. She was still trying to pretend she was anything other that completely bewildered. This girl, this Lydia, looked _exactly_ like her. As close as one could get without Polyjuice Potion, anyway. A sudden thought flashed into her head, simultaneously delighting her and making her extremely anxious.

_It's why. It's why she went with Lydia in the first place, isn't it. Because she looks like me. But that's ridiculous, Hermione never—she never—it was Luna she kissed that day. Luna, not me. _

Another thought, more tremendous and distressing than the first:

_And then Ron, not because he was so completely mad for her, well not entirely because he was so completely mad for her, but partly, part at least because he was my brother, it must be, even though it's so completely unbelievable, it must be that._

"Beg your pardon?" Lydia said rather snidely. Ginny blinked.

"What?"

"Who's your brother? And what has it got to do with where that bitch has put my _things_?"

Anger swelled in Ginny's breast. "Listen, you—you--" _damn, she could never think of anything clever_—"you utter _twat_--" Lydia blanched. _Brilliant!_ "Say whatever you like about me, but I will _not_ have you say one thing about Hermione. She's a lovely person, and she's my best friend, and the only thing I can see wrong with her is that she took up with you in the _first _place." Her cheeks were flushed, though for the first time in ages, it seemed, not with embarrassment.

Lydia gaped at her. Her expression changed abruptly. "I know who you are," she said, her voice very cold and haughty. "You're that _athlete_."

A very inopportune twinge of pride flitted through Ginny. _So Hermione had talked about her!_ "Yes, what about it?"

Lydia sniffed. "_I_ see. Apparently Hermione couldn't handle living with culture and intellect. She needed something a little less . . . _demanding_.

Ginny would rather see Voldemort rise again than take such a slur. She was the best bloody Chaser in a generation, and there was no way she was going to let some presumptuous, pretentious poseur blow her off. She set her jaw.

"The only thing I think she needed _less_ of is _you_. Though I'm sure getting rid of your bloody garbage didn't hurt." Lydia's jaw dropped. "Oh yes, I'm quite certain of it. As for culture and intellect, Hermione could run bloody _circles_ around you in _both_ those arenas, and I'm sure you know that. Though I suppose someone such as yourself could perceive her utter lack of interest in your liberating women from the tyranny of sport as being the sign of an undeveloped mind. I _personally_ see it as the sign of a _terribly_ enlightened mind." Ginny's pulse was racing. She couldn't quite believe she was managing to string together so many sentences without sounding like a complete ass. Lydia simply stood, her face frozen in an expression of total disbelief. "So that's it, then?: Ginny said briskly. "Good. Hermione will have your things sent round to whoever's flat you've decided to crash."

"That's—you--" Lydia sputtered. She paused and took a breath. After a moment she spoke again in the same commanding, dismissive tone. "That's quite funny, coming from you."

"How so?" Ginny clenched her jaw again. This girl was really starting to irritate her.

"It seems as though _yesterday_ you were living somewhere else yourself."

Ginny paused. She had a point.

"Not that it matters, anyway. I don't give a fuck _what_ she does or _who_ she does it with," Lydia continued, though Ginny could tell she wasn't at all as convinced of what she said as she was trying to sound. "I just came round to get my things."

"And to throw a rock through the window," Ginny added. "What do you reckon it'll cost to replace, anyway?"

"You seemed to have gotten the other one fixed without a problem," Lydia said, struggling to find a foothold in the argument. Ginny was beaming internally, delighted that she was, for once in her life, winning a fight that hadn't introduced the use of arm-twisting.

"So that's two you owe us for, then."

"Oh, it's _us_ already, is it? She certainly does work fast."

"You're welcome to leave at any moment. I'd recommend sooner, though," Ginny said, trying to control herself. Honestly, the _nerve_ of this girl! "I'm not very intellectual, you see, and when I get angry I tend to resort to less demanding methods."

"Are you _threatening_ me?" Lydia was righteously appalled.

"Of course not, that would be vulgar. I'm just inviting you to take your pretentious little arse out of my flat. If it's not too much trouble."

Lydia glared hard at Ginny for a moment, trying to decide what to do. _Is that how I look when I'm angry?_ Ginny wondered. _I'll have to work on that._ She threw her arms in the air and stomped out. At the door she turned back as though she were going to say something, instead making a horrible face—_and that as well--could hardly restrain herself from leaping up and down with glee. She couldn't however, stop herself from giggling delightedly. She ran to the window, mindful of the glass, and whistled. Lydia turned back, her face scarlet with indignation._

"I'll just leave your things down below. You can pick them up whenever it's convenient, it's no trouble," she called sweetly. Lydia made a rude gesture and Ginny barely repressed the urge to blow her a kiss. "Goodbye, now," she shouted as Lydia stormed away.

Ginny turned away from the window, her mind at full speed. _Lydia could've been her double. I wonder how many times she's been stopped for my autograph_. She giggled again and picked up her wand, thanking Merlin that Lydia hadn't noticed it on the sideboard. She flicked it at the window, the glass rearranging itself neatly.

This was really something.

She sat down on the couch and tried to collect her thoughts. It made perfect sense, the kind of sense that was too perfect to be real. Yet it _must_ be real. But if Hermione was so taken with her, why had it been Luna that day?

_Because you were off snogging Dean or Seamus or Michael or some bloke. No wonder._

Ginny couldn't help wondering who had started it. She couldn't conceive of Hermione making the first move, couldn't imagine Hermione reaching out and putting her hand on Luna's arm, stroking the mass of cornsilk hair, couldn't imagine Hermione leaning in and—

But, the way her brain always did, Ginny's couldn't-imagine clicked over into imagining. She tried to picture the scene, placing herself somewhere in it, not _literally_ in it, but perhaps as a catalyst. The thought made her dizzy and she was glad she was sitting down.

_Hermione fancies me._

_Well of course she does._

_But she has . . . for a long time. Ages. And I had no idea._

_Would it have made a difference if you had?_

Ginny thought hard about it. Would it? If she had known Hermione had fancied her back when they were at Hogwarts, what would have been different? How would she have felt about it? It seemed as though it had taken something so surprising—_purple marks on her neck. Long silvery hairs_—to make her even _think_ about it, the possibility of it, and even then she hadn't thought seriously about Hermione, had she?

All right, she had, but only for a week. Right?

It was impossible. There was no way for her to know if her bursting in at that particular moment had shaped anything in her brain, had set her off on a specific course that led her, one day, to this room, where she sat now waiting for her lover to come home.

_My lover?_

The words felt foreign and slightly silly. After all, they weren't—that. _But . . . _

It was possible. It was—likely.

Ginny shivered. She couldn't decide if it was anticipation or anxiety, but the chorus of naked girls in her head were cheering raucously for the former. It would take time, she would make it take time, she imagined she was probably in a sort of shock, and that it would only be a matter of time before she snapped out of it and realized precisely what it was that she was _in_. She had no doubt she'd still want it, whatever it was, but for once a small glimmer of rationalization was flickering feebly in her brain. _Don't rush it, Ginny. You always rush it and then it's bollocks._ Right. Waiting.

She sighed. She bit her lip. She crossed her legs, then uncrossed them. She drummed her fingers on her knees. She'd always been miserable at waiting.

_She looked just like me_, Ginny thought, a rush of giddy joy swirling through her. _Hermione does, she really does . . . _

Right, then. Ginny couldn't stay in the flat all day waiting for Hermione to come back. She needed to diffuse herself a little; if she kept to the flat all of what she was feeling would just concentrate and concentrate and then when Hermione came home Ginny had the idea that her determination to wait on _anything_ would be laid utterly to waste. She remembered Hermione's note—_get some bloody clothes!—_and nodded. She'd go shopping. It would be good for her.

Right.


	7. Chapter 7

Ginny stumbled through the door, bags and packages tumbling to the ground.

Shopping was _fun_.

She stopped in the entryway and surveyed her bounty. She marveled at the sheer volume of things one could buy if one had enough of the right kind of money. She'd never been particularly interested in shopping before; then again, she'd never seen a contraption that would squeeze an orange when you pressed a button.

"My God, Ginny," Hermione cried, closing her bedroom door firmly behind her. _When on earth is she going to let me in there?_ Ginny wondered. "I hope this is everything."

"Everything today," Ginny said, grinning playfully. "Honestly, Hermione, the things Muggles think up."

"Yes, well, most of it is utter crap," Hermione said, nudging an electric fan with her toe. "We do have forced air, you know."

"I don't know what that is," Ginny replied. "And I don't care, I had fun. I got the money bit right almost every time! We can give it all away if you want, I just liked the shopping part."

Hermione smiled. "I'm sure we can find _some_ place for it. Especially now that Lydia's things are gone. Speaking of," she said, "where _are_ they? They're not on the table."

Ginny flushed. "They're . . ." she couldn't think of anything to say. Hermione looked at her curiously.

"They're . . . ?"

Ginny bit her lip. _What to say? Mustn't tell Hermione that Lydia was here today. She'd have an absolute attack_. "I put them away," she said finally. "I didn't want you to have to think about her." That sounded plausible. Plausible and attentive. _Just let it work_.

Hermione's brow furrowed. Ginny saw her trying to decide whether or not she believed it. Finally she smiled again. "How sweet," she said and gave her a kiss on the cheek. Ginny gave silent thanks and began pulling her haul into the living room.

"How was your day? How was Bristol?"

"Clammy," Hermione said. "The wizard—_ex_-wizard, rather—I met was living in some godforsaken dungheap out in the middle of bloody nowhere. It reminded me quite a lot of the Shrieking Shack, actually. I'm thinking of changing my introduction to the book to examine why it is so many witches and wizards who have left magic seem to have left _all_ civilization."

"You didn't."

"True. But it's so easy to lose yourself in a city. When I first moved out here I was so delighted by how I could go anywhere without seeing a single person I knew, or who knew me. Total anonymity. It was . . ." she trailed off. "Anyway, that's over. To be quite honest with you I'm a little relieved about it. Living as a Muggle was definitely a failed experiment, I mean, look what a mess I made of it."

"You didn't make a mess of it. Someone like Lydia could happen to anyone. Look at Neville."

"What's happened to Neville?" Hermione asked, interested.

"Oh, I thought you knew, he's married to some awful woman his grandmother met at a shop. Doesn't let him out of her sight. Not that he'd ever do anything to warrant investigation, Neville's probably the rightest bloke I know." Ginny dug through one of her bags, pulling out a black jacket. "Do you like this?"

"It's lovely! Not what I would have expected."

"What do you mean?" Ginny said, looking at her quizzically.

"It's just—well, when we were at school you seemed very . . . _attached_ to brown trousers and knit jumpers."

"_Mum_ was attached to them, you mean," Ginny corrected her. "I haven't worn brown trousers in . . . centuries, I suppose."

"Well, I like it."

The silence came back, slightly awkward.

"So," Hermione said.

"So," Ginny said.

"What shall we do tonight?"

_Go in your bloody bedroom, how about that?_ Ginny nearly blushed at the idea. _Not that way_, she reprimanded herself. _Just to get it over with_. She nearly blushed again.

_Stop it!_

"We could . . ." Ginny couldn't think of anything.

The silence settled itself comfortably in the armchair and watched them, interested.

Ginny wanted desperately for Hermione to think of something to do. She wanted, desperately, for Hermione to think of something to do _herself_, so Ginny could watch her. After her altercation with Lydia her mind was swimming. The shopping had distracted her, but now, back in the flat, with Hermione there . . .

_She looked just like me. She was so awful, so unbearable, so utterly un-Hermione, it's the only reason. It has to be._

She thought of the page from _Quidditch Quarterly_. Thought of Hermione going to her matches when Hermione had never particularly cared one way or the other about Quidditch. The idea that Hermione had secretly fancied her for so long, years, still sent giddy little shivers running up and down her spine.

_It's not just because she fancies me that I fancy her, is it?_ It had been that way with Harry, and with the long string of boys before him. Ginny frowned. That wouldn't do at all. With the others it didn't feel like it had mattered, it _hadn't_ mattered that she hadn't really cared for them, that she had only gone with them to please them, that she had only gone with them because their adoration had made her feel good. But with Hermione, now, it suddenly seemed to matter very much. She wanted Hermione to be happy, wanted to _make_ her happy, and not just because it would prevent unpleasant scenes. After all, she rather liked it when Hermione cried. The memory of Michael Corner cornering her in the common room, tears glistening in his eyes as he pleaded with her to take him back, made her wince. But the memory of Hermione, her lip trembling, her long lashes damp, made her feel something else entirely. _I don't want to make her sad, though. I want to protect her. _

_It must be real. How wonderful_.

"Ginny," Hermione interrupted her thoughts. "You're doing it again."

Ginny blinked. "Oh, sorry," she said. "I just get so . . . wrapped up."

"I've noticed."

"It's just . . . I've got a lot on my mind."

Hermione's face softened and she looked vaguely distressed. "I know," she said quietly. "I do to."

"I didn't mean it like that!" Ginny said quickly. "It's only I've developed this habit of _thinking_." Hermione laughed. Ginny grimaced. "That didn't sound right at all, did it."

"Not especially, but I think it's charming. I think _you're_ charming."

Ginny blushed. "I--"

_Say it!_

Hermione watched her, half-expectantly. "Yes?"

_It shouldn't be so hard, you've been thinking about it for days. Just bloody say it!_

"I—I quite fancy you, you know." She immediately wanted to disappear, or to burst into giggles, neither of which seemed appropriate, somehow. She settled on flushing a deep crimson and staring at the carpet, which was suddenly very interesting.

"I quite fancy you as well," Hermione said, and Ginny could hear the smile in her voice. She still couldn't bring herself to look up, which reinforced her conviction that _this_ time, it was real. She'd never been half as awkward with Harry, not counting her schoolgirl-crush days, and even just yesterday when she had pressed Hermione against the counter and kissed her it had been infinitely easier than actually _saying_ anything.

Her brain took a merciful detour back to that moment, _her hand just on Hermione's face, the warm softness of her mouth, the split-second intake of breath_, and she relaxed slightly. Curious, she thought, that action should be so easy and talking should be so hard. Well, she supposed it wasn't all _that_ curious, she'd always thought of herself—before she started _thinking_ so much—as vastly more physical than intellectual. Not that she was intellectual _now_, it wasn't _her_ fault if her mind was such a bloody chatterbox.

"Ginny?" She could hear Hermione moving closer, and then she was there, seated next to her on the sofa. Putting her hand on Ginny's arm, which Ginny imagined would probably make her feel warm and slightly nervous forever. "It's all right, isn't it? I know it's sudden—well, I _imagine_ it's sudden—and I understand if it's difficult."

"That's just it," Ginny said, still staring at the tiny machine-knit waves cascading across the floor. "It's _not_ difficult. I thought—well, I think I would've thought if I'd ever thought of thinking about it--" _brilliant speaker, you are_—"I thought it _would_ have been. Not because you're, you know, a girl, but because . . . oh Merlin, I don't know."

"Are you _sure_ it's not because I'm a . . ."

"I'm sure," she said, finally managing to tear her eyes away from the carpet. Hermione was looking at her intently, her face creased with worry. Ginny resisted the urge to touch her, to run her thumb over the lines and try to smooth the apprehension away. "It's never bothered me," she continued. "I suppose what _did_ bother me, maybe subconsciously, was how I never seemed to be very happy with a boy. I mean, I was _happy_, but it never felt . . . permanent. And anyway, I don't even know if I really fancy girls at all, or if it's just you." She blushed again.

"Oh Gin," Hermione smiled at her, sweetly.

"Anyway," she said. "I'm not bothered."

And Hermione kissed her again, and Ginny was absolutely certain.

Ginny leaned against her, Hermione's hand stroking her hair. "Look at all this shit," she said, amused. "Maybe I should send it off to Dad."

"He'd love it, I'm sure."

"Mum would have fits, of course."

"Of course."

They sat quietly, which was very different from silently, for several long, peaceful minutes.

"I thought you got rid of the rock?" Hermione said abruptly.

"The rock?" Ginny echoed weakly, dread poking at her blissful haze like thunderclouds at a Quidditch match. _The rock. The fucking rock_. She'd been so careful about hiding all evidence of magic from Lydia that she'd completely forgotten to hide all evidence of Muggles from Hermione. But there it was. Sitting stone-faced on the table, big as life.

"Yes, didn't you get rid of it?"

Ginny was flustered but tried not to show it. _Just say you forgot. Just say you forgot. Just say you forgot_.

"I--"

"Ginny?"

_Just say it! _

"I—forgot?" _Bloody hell._

Hermione stood up, sending Ginny toppling over on the sofa. "Bollocks!" she cried. If she hadn't been so panicked Ginny would have laughed. But as it happened she was completely, utterly, abysmally panicked. "Ginny, did she do it again?"

Ginny nodded miserably. _Brilliant. The one chance to lie and away it went. Stuck with the truth now._ Lying fell into the category of "intellectual," since it very often required some sort of spur-of-the-moment cleverness of a kind Ginny did not possess.

Hermione stiffened, her face draining of expression. "And her things—you didn't put them away for me."

Ginny shook her head.

"You put them away because she was here. Oh _Ginny_."

Ginny couldn't decide if Hermione was angry or embarrassed and settled on both.

"_Why_ did you let her in?" Hermione's face bloomed scarlet. Her fists were balled up and Ginny could see tears pricking at the corners of her eyes, only they weren't happy, or sad, or anything pleasant. They were _furious_. Ginny decided she didn't at all like _those_ kinds of tears.

"I don't _know_!" she cried. "I was _curious_."

Hermione's chest rose and fell rapidly. Ginny stood up, crossing away from her. _Fantastic. Bloody fantastic. It was all going so well, and here we are, and there's that bloody rock._ "I can't believe you did that," Hermione muttered.

"Well what was I _supposed_ to do?" A flush of anger spread through Ginny. Honestly, it wasn't at all fair, or even _reasonable_ for Hermione to expect her not to want to know about Lydia. Even though, Ginny knew now, she had very good reasons for it. Still, how could Ginny be expected _not_ to, especially when the girl had pitched _another_ bloody stone through the window? "Hermione, that girl is _crazy_. I had to make her go away!"

"What did you say to her?" Hermione's voice was controlled, low, vaguely scary.

"I just . . . I just told her to leave and not come back." Angry Hermione was clearly a force to be reckoned with. Ginny decided it was probably best not to try and make her any madder than she already was. She choked back her own indignation. "Look, I'm sorry, okay? I didn't think it would be a big deal, I didn't think it would be . . ."

"Be what?" Hermione cried. "You didn't think it would be what?"

"Umm . . . what it was?" Ginny finished feebly. "I mean," she corrected, " I didn't think it would upset you so much."

"Well it has, and _I_ don't see how you would think it wouldn't!" Hermione shouted. She spun around and stomped into her bedroom, slamming the door.

Marvelous.

Ginny sighed heavily. She'd been doing so well, she thought. If she'd only paid _attention._ She kicked at one of her bags. A stuffed giraffe sailed across the floor.

_Give that one to George_, she thought.

She could her Hermione muttering in her bedroom. Ginny sighed again and sat back down on the couch. She couldn't escape the feeling that she'd done something horrible—

_You knew it was wrong when you told her to come up_, the dark-haired girl reminded her.

"Oh sod off," she said.

_Honestly, you don't know what you're doing at all, do you?_

"How am I supposed to?" she cried. There was an answering thump from the direction of Hermione's room. Ginny lowered her voice. "Anyway," she hissed, "what do _you_ know about it? You're just a _photograph_."

_I seem to know quite a lot more about it than you do._

"Then _help_ me, instead of being rude all the time."

The dark-haired girl sighed. Would have sighed, had she not been bound so restrictively.

_Clearly she's upset about it._

"Obviously."

_And why do you suppose that is?_

"It's bleeding obvious, isn't it? I saw Lydia. Hermione's bound to be upset—no offense--"

_None taken_.

"And I suppose I can understand why. She's probably embarrassed."

_And what are you going to do about it?_

"I don't _know_, do I?"

The girl would've sighed again. _Look, you didn't mean any harm, anybody can see that. So what you've got to do is tell her. _

"But I don't want to bring it up. I don't want to remind her that I know that her sodding ex-girlfriend could be my sodding twin."

_I don't think anybody here has forgotten that._

"So what do I say?"

The girl was silent.

"You don't know, do you. All you know about is shagging."

_That's not true!_ Her tone was indignant. _I've been hanging about Hermione's room for ages. I think I know a thing or two about her_.

"So tell me something. Something _useful_."

_She loves you._

"I know _that_. She's fancied me since school."

_She doesn't just fancy you, you dense git. She loves you_.

Ginny was struck unexpectedly dumb. She didn't know why it was so shocking, perhaps it had something to do with the endless action-versus-speaking debate that raged in her brain. _She loves me_.

_Do I love her?_

_Don't look at me_.

"I wasn't asking you," Ginny snapped.

Did she? She definitely _fancied_ her, but did she _love_ her? Ginny was puzzled. Certainly she'd always loved Hermione in some way, like a sister, she supposed, but did she love her in _that_ way? And if she didn't right at this moment, _could_ she? How hard was it for one kind of love to turn into another kind? Would she even know when it happened?

Suddenly she realized that even asking herself these questions must mean she'd never loved anybody that way before. She frowned, almost sad. _Poor Harry_. She _thought_ she'd loved him, for a while, anyway, but now . . .

_So?_

"I don't know," Ginny whispered. If there was ever anything Hermione absolutely must not overhear, it definitely had to be this.

_Think about it. Not that I have to tell you that._

And she was gone.

Ginny sat unmoving on the sofa. Hermione loved her. And not because she was brilliant at Quidditch, or because she was her brother's little sister, or because she was good at snogging, though that might have played a part.

She didn't know what to do. Part of her wanted to fling open Hermione's bedroom door and damn the consequences, and take Hermione into her arms and do what she was best at. But another part of her, the annoying, grown-up part, reminded her that Hermione was angry, very angry, and if Ginny burst in when she hadn't been invited Hermione might not respond too well to being snogged silly.

She sat for a very long time. Ages, it seemed. Just when she was on the point of action, even though she wasn't quite sure what action it would be but she knew it would be _something_, Hermione's door creaked open.

"Ginny?" Her voice was watery. But not in the angry way, the sad, hurt way that made Ginny want to pull her close. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Ginny said, leaping up. "If anything, _I'm_ sorry. I never should have let her in."

"It's just . . . I didn't want you to see . . ."

"Hermione," Ginny said firmly. "In what universe would I be anything other than delighted to find out your former girlfriend could be my twin? Especially after she turned out to be so absolutely unbearable."

"You thought so too?"

"Within the first thirty seconds of meeting her."

Hermione smiled. Ginny's heart soared. _Not unfixable. She loves me._

"I'm sorry."

"Please don't be," Ginny said, crossing to her. "You didn't do _anything_."

"I should have told you about her."

"No. It's fine. You're allowed to have things I don't know about. I mean, I'm sure I didn't really _need _to know about it. I won't lie to you, I'm glad I found out, but I wouldn't have died from not knowing." She brushed Hermione's cheek with her thumb. "And anyway," she whispered, "I think it's lovely."

Hermione's lip trembled and she cast her eyes down, so prettily that Ginny was seized with the urge to kiss her. _I can do that now_, she marveled, and, opting to exercise that ability she pulled Hermione's face to hers.

"Thank you," Hermione murmured.

"For what?"

"Not thinking me the most colossal idiot in the world.'

"Hermione," Ginny said with mock exasperation. "You're the cleverest person I know."

"But--"

"No but," Ginny tucked a strand of hair behind Hermione's ear. "Shall we not talk about it again?"

Hermione nodded, then bit her lip—_that gets me every time­_—and looked into Ginny's eyes. "I . . ."

Ginny was quite sure she wouldn't be able to handle actually _hearing _what it was she knew Hermione was about to say, and let action take over again. _I'm not being a coward,_ she reasoned. _I'm just . . . nervous. I'm sure I'll be able to hear it one day. _

_Will I be able to say it?_

_Do I think it?_

To shut herself up as much as Hermione, Ginny pulled her close and did her best to top herself when it came to snogging. Hermione fairly swooned in her arms.

_That will do_, she thought. _For now_.


	8. Chapter 8

Hermione checked her watch anxiously and looked around the café. She'd been expecting Petra and Niks for ten minutes. She stirred her coffee impatiently and checked her watch again. She was on the point of digging her mobile out of her bag when the bell tinkled and the two women walked in.

"Petra!" Hermione waved them over. They waved in response and wove through the maze of tables, sitting down beside her. Petra swept her long blond hair behind her and sighed.

"Couldn't get a bloody cab. I don't understand it. So sorry to keep you waiting."

"It's nothing, don't worry," Hermione said. "Niks, how are you?"

Nicola shrugged. "Same as always. But that damned paper is going all to hell without you, Hermione."

"Really?" Hermione was slightly pleased. She'd left the _Weekly Review_ when the owl had come with the offer to edit the book. She didn't regret the change at all. Long nights of sitting around, drinking coffee, waiting for the latest unemployment figures to come in was not something she had any desire to go back to.

"Honestly, Gerard and Tina have absolutely _no_ idea how to run things. I think they're just trying to hold it together and not give anyone the impression that it was you making everything work all along." She flagged a waiter. "I'll have a coffee, anything for you, Petra?"

"Whiskey and soda," Petra said. "I know it's only the afternoon, but fuck it. I sat through the most completely dull meeting this morning, I think I've earned a reward." The waiter nodded and headed back to the bar.

"They're making you come in on Saturdays now?" Hermione said.

"They've been doing it for _ages_. As though making us work on the weekend is going to improve interest rates." Petra shook out her hair again. Hermione watched, entranced. Something about that long curtain of cornsilk hair had always hypnotized her.

"So what's going on?" Nicola asked, then rolled her eyes as her mobile beeped. "Sorry, won't be a tick. Gerard is having some sort of crisis." She cleared her throat. "Yes? I know, Gerard, but you've got to make sure the advert layouts are finished by seven-thirty. _Seven-thirty_. Look, I've got to go, I'm just sitting down to coffee with Hermione. Yes, that Hermione. No, I don't think—let me ask." She rolled her eyes again. "You want to come back, Hermione? Gerard is practically begging. Well, you _are_." Hermione shook her head vehemently. "She says not at the moment, Gerard. Yes, well, seven-thirty. I'm hanging up now, darling. Bye-bye." She clapped the phone closed. "Incompetent ass."

Hermione smiled. She hadn't seen her friends in weeks, not since things had gotten bad with Lydia. A pang of regret tugged at her. At least they hadn't been Lydia's friends. They'd be delighted.

The waiter reappeared. The women took their drinks and shooed him away. Hermione giggled as he retreated, walking backward to look at them. Her friends _were_ terribly attractive.

"So?" Petra said, sipping her drink. "What's with your sudden disappearance from the face of the earth? Is that cunt—sorry, your _girlfriend_, holding you hostage?"

Hermione sighed, smiling. "You'll both be unbearably pleased to know that we've broken up."

Petra and Nicola exchanged a look. "About bloody time," Nicola said. "Not that we've ever disapproved of your choices," she added dryly.

"Yes, well, I thought I'd tell you in person. I know you'd never let it go if you had to hear it secondhand."

"Bloody right," Petra seconded. "So what? When? Why?"

"Tell us everything," Nicola said.

"There really isn't that much of everything. We had a tremendous row the other day, and I told her to go."

"Bravo!" Petra cried, raising her glass.

"And how are you holding up? Have you begun shoveling your flat out yet?"

"Actually . . ." Hermione began, a faint blush spreading across her cheeks.

Petra and Nicola scooted their chairs in closer. Nicola dropped her face into her hands. "Blushing?" she said, elbowing Petra.

"It's nothing! I've just . . . an old school friend is helping me clear it out."

"An old school friend?" Petra echoed, raising her eyebrow.

"Would this by any chance be . . ."

". . . that football player?"

Hermione's blush intensified. "Just don't start," she groaned.

The women looked at each other with barely-repressed glee.

"We won't start," Petra began.

"If you will," Nicola finished.

Hermione covered her face with her hands. "Yes," she muttered. "Don't get all excited or anything."

"Darling, I know this is a fragile time for you," Nicola said. "But if you _honestly_ expect us not to get excited because you've thrown off that bloody carrot of a girl for, from what little you've told us, is a perfectly _delicious_ footballer, well . . ."

"You're crazy."

"I haven't! She's just helping me move Lydia's things out."

They exchanged another glance.

"That's how it always starts," Petra deadpanned. "Niks was just helping me move Caroline's things out."

Hermione grimaced good-naturedly. "Look, it's nothing serious, all right?"

"Of course not," Nicola said. "So when do we get to meet her?"

"Ummm . . . well, she's not exactly _accustomed_ to it yet."

"You're saying you're dating an old school friend you've been mad about for ages who is a football player and she's _straight_?"

"It's not that--"

"So she's not straight? Well, that's a step in the right direction."

"She's . . . I don't know."

"Honestly, Hermione," Petra sighed. "You have a gift for getting yourself into the most absurd situations."

"I can't help it. Just lucky, I guess," she smiled.

"Well, what's her name, again? Gina?"

"Ginny," Hermione said, blushing.

"Look at that, Niks," Petra said, pointing at Hermione. "Just saying the girl's name makes her blush."

"How bleeding _precious_," Nicola replied. "I want to meet her. Because your taste seems to be so abysmal, I think you really ought to let us feel out the situation, as it were."

"I don't think that will be necessary," Hermione said, trying to hide her embarrassment.

"Well," Petra mused, "Hermione _has_ been a raving lunatic over this girl for . . . I don't know, ever? I suppose she can't be _too_ awful."

"All the more reason," Nicola replied. "It seems to me that if our dear friend Hermione has finally grabbed the ring—_have _you grabbed it?"

Hermione wanted to melt into the floor. It wouldn't be hard, she knew the spell. If only her friends weren't so forthright. But she supposed it was part of the reason she liked them so much. "No," she mumbled. She cleared her throat. "It _has_ only been four days."

"Four days plus eight years," Petra reminded her.

"Anyway," Nicola continued, "it seems that if Hermione's finally gotten ahold of her dream girl we should at _least_ get the privilege of meeting her. If only to see what the fuss is about."

"Niks does have a point," Petra said. "We're the ones who have had to listen to you whingeing and whining about her for the past thousand years."

"I'm sure I'll have you both round soon," Hermione promised. "Just give me some time."

"Time for what?" Nicola asked cheekily. Petra smacked her on the arm. "Ow!" Nicola cried. "That was patently unfair!"

"Don't be disgusting," Petra chided.

Hermione smiled again. She had missed their company. Nicola had been her first friend in London, immediately adopting her when she had started working at the paper. It was Niks and Petra who had introduced her to Isabelle, her first girlfriend, and it was Niks and Petra who had been infinitely understanding when she'd broken up with her, listening to the whole story of Hermione's feelings for Ginny and accepting it as a perfectly viable reason for dumping a girl who, in any other circumstance, Hermione would've been mad to leave. Isabelle had worked at Petra's bank, making an absurdly enormous salary, she had owned a house in an absurdly fashionable neighborhood, she had been absurdly attractive. Hermione had always credited Petra's ability to negotiate, combined with Nicola's talent with words, for getting them together in the first place. She had always felt she owed a large part of whatever sanity she had pieced back together after making the decision to turn her back on the magical world to the two of them. She had also always felt that, if it wouldn't be breaking a thousand magical laws, they would be the two people most likely to understand her other life.

"I've missed you," she said, feeling only slightly foolish.

"We've missed you too, you silly girl. But now that you've dropped Lydia like the bad habit she was and you've taken up with what we _assume_ is a perfectly lovely girl, let's hope it won't happen again." Petra drained her glass and flagged down the waiter again.

"So what else does this Ginny do? Besides play football." Nicola turned to Petra. "Fuck it, get me one too. Hermione?" Hermione shrugged. "Three of what she's having," she said to the waiter, pointing at Petra's empty glass. "Post-haste, my good man." He nodded and backed away again. Nicola rolled her eyes. "Men," she moaned. "_Honestly_."

"Well, you _are_ quite the catch, my darling," Petra said.

"Bloody right," Nicola replied. "I don't spend three hundred pounds a month on makeup to look like some old slag."

"Three hundred pounds?" Hermione repeated, impressed.

"Tell me about it," Petra sighed. "So, this footballer."

"Well, she's not playing at the moment."

"Whyever not?"

"I'm not quite sure, actually. She's thinking about going back to it."

"Good for her. It would be a refreshing change for you to be living with someone who actually has a job."

"She's got more money than anyone needs, as it happens," Hermione said. She grimaced. "I didn't mean it like that," she added.

"Not at all," Nicola cried. "I think it's _lovely_ that you've got yourself a rich girlfriend."

"It doesn't matter, anyway."

"Of course it doesn't," Petra said, patting Hermione's hand. "It's a nice fringe benefit, though. So what else does she do?"

"I'm not really sure. It has been awhile since we've been very close."

"She's rich _and_ mysterious? That's brilliant!" Nicola shooed the waiter away again. "You know you haven't got a chance, love," she called after him. He turned scarlet and tripped over a chair. Nicola cackled with laughter.

"She's not _mysterious_," Hermione protested. "I've known her for ages, remember. It's just been a long time since we really talked. She has just left her boyfriend, I know."

"Her _boyfriend_?"

"From school. He was one of my best friends."

"Keeping it all in the family, I see."

Hermione blushed furiously. She was intensely glad she'd never told them about Ron. "Yes, well," she said.

"Anyway," Nicola cut in. "We think it's just lovely."

"I'm so glad," Hermione said sardonically. "You know, I had thought about telling you that Lydia and I had decided to buy a house."

Petra and Nicola groaned simultaneously. "We would've had to have killed you," Nicola said. "Honestly."

"This is _vastly_ better news."

Nicola's mobile burred softly again. "I told you, Gerard, I'm _busy_!" she cried, digging it out of her pocket. "What?" she snapped. "_Seven-thirty_." She snapped the phone shut again. "_Please_ come back," she pleaded. "I'm going _mad_."

Hermione giggled. "Terribly sorry," she said. "So what's been going on with you?"

"Oh, not much. Bloody landlord won't leave us alone."

"Honestly, it was _one_ party."

Hermione raised her eyebrow. She'd been to several parties at their flat, which were unfailingly raging all-night affairs. Ginny would probably love them, she thought, and bit her lip. Nicola elbowed Petra again.

"By all means," she said innocently, "_do_ bring her to one of our little events."

Hermione seriously doubted it would be a wise idea to debut Ginny to all of her friends at one of Niks and Petra's parties. At least not until they'd developed a better backstory for her. _Especially_ not until she'd gotten Ginny used to the idea of electric blenders.

Nicola's phone rang again. "I am going to throw this bloody thing off the bloody roof," she shouted. Several patrons turned to look at her. "I'm throwing bloody Gerard after it," she shouted, even louder. The patrons glanced at each other nervously.

"Her boss is being a stupid git," Petra said by way of apology. Everyone turned back to their conversations.

"_What_ do you _want_?" Nicola cried into the phone. "I am _busy_, Gerard! What? What? You _what_? Oh Jesus _Christ_. Yes, I'm coming." She clapped her phone shut unceremoniously. "I hate to do this to you, love," she said, pulling money out of her purse. "Gerard has quite possibly caused the entire paper to fold in the last ten minutes. So guess who's got to go sort it all out." She threw her phone into her purse.

"That means it's curtains for me too, I'm afraid," Petra said and stood up. She crossed to Hermione and gave her a tight hug. "Make sure you don't fuck it up," she whispered.

"Thanks," Hermione said wryly.

"I only mean that your happiness is something I take quite seriously, perhaps against my better judgment. And if Ginny really is as wonderful as you've been going on about, well, it seems as though the only thing that would ruin it is you being ridiculous."

"I have no plans to be ridiculous," she said, kissing Petra on the cheek.

"Oh, you have to be at least a _little _ridiculous," Nicola chimed in. "Otherwise it's no fun at all." She embraced Hermione. "Don't take forever in letting us meet her, either. I fully expect an invitation to dinner within a fortnight."

"I'll think about it," Hermione said. "I _will_! I just need a little more time. For both of us to get used to the idea."

"Of having us round to dinner? I know we're quite the cosmopolitan duo, but it shouldn't be all _that_ unbearable."

"Go save the paper," Hermione laughed. Nicola saluted her.

"I do it in your honor," she said, bowing. "Tell your girlfriend hello from us."

"I promise," Hermione said. She waved as they walked out the door.

Her heart was light as she threw a handful of change on the table. She had known Niks and Petra would be pleased about Ginny, but the prospect of telling them—of telling anyone—had terrified her. Hermione had never been especially good at discussing personal matters, she had always felt better-suited to more analytical discussion, so managing to actually _have_ the conversation made her feel immensely better.

She thought about Ginny waiting for her at home and smiled. Things were definitely looking up.


	9. Chapter 9

Ginny took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

From deep within she could hear the sounds of something stirring, then glass being knocked over. A muffled curse, and the door cracked open.

Harry squinted out at her, his eyes bloodshot.

"What do _you_ want?" he snapped.

"Well, I'd come by to talk, if you wanted." The statement surprised her. She'd had absolutely no intention of talking any more than was absolutely necessary, but now that she was here, she figured she might as well. It would save a return trip, anyway. "I'd also like to get the rest of my things."

Harry eyed her suspiciously. After a moment's thought he stepped back, opening the door just wide enough for Ginny to squeeze past.

The first thing she noticed was the stench. "Harry, it smells like a bloody distillery in here," she choked. "Have you been bathing in firewhiskey?" A quick glance around the room answered her question. Nothing had been disturbed since she'd been there a week earlier, the only change was the abundance of empty bottles perched on every available unavailable surface. "Oh Harry," she said. "What have you been doing?"

"What does it bloody look like?" he said, his voice hard. Ginny wasn't certain but she was very nearly convinced he was wearing the same clothes. If the smell was any indication. "I've been drinking myself stupid waiting for you to fucking come back."

Ginny's face wrinkled with concern. And pity, though she hated herself a little for it. Pity, she thought, was the worst thing one could feel for another human being. Yet here Harry was, filthy, drunk, and mucking around in a dark, humid cavern that had once been a perfectly decent flat. _If I'd know this was going to happen I would've left a note_, she thought. _Or at least remembered to cancel his account at the shop._ "Can I at least open a window?" she asked, trying not to sound as nauseated as she felt. "The smell in here, and this is no reflection on you, Harry, would make an ogre feel at home."

Harry grunted. Ginny took this as a yes and waded to the window, throwing up the sash. Sunlight streamed in and glinted off the bottles; for a moment it almost looked pretty. But only for a moment; Ginny sighed and pulled out her wand.

"What d'you think you're doing?" Harry had picked a half-empty bottle up from the table.

"Apologizing," Ginny said. She flicked her wand at the bottle in Harry's hand, causing it to soar across the room and into the kitchen. Harry's face darkened as the whiskey quietly glugged down the drain. "You've had quite enough, I think," she said.

"You're not my bloody _mother_," he grumbled. Ginny simply shook her head and conjured a pitcher of water and a glass. They hung hesitantly in the air as she tried to find a place to set them down. Finally she left them suspended for a moment as she cleared away a space on the table with her wand.

"Drink this," she said, filling the glass. Harry folded his arms. "_Honestly_, Harry, this isn't going to go very well if you're going to be a petulant ass about it."

"What do you _expect_, Ginny?" Harry exploded. "You're my bloody _girlfriend_, and you just _leave_ one day and don't tell me where you're going, or what you're doing, or _why_ you left! What was I _supposed _to do?"

"Behave like an adult!" Ginny cried. _Lovely. Two minutes in and I'm already wishing I hadn't come._ "I had _hoped_ you'd _think_ about it, instead of getting drunk for a bloody week!"

"Ginny, you just _left_! I didn't know what else to do! And what, exactly, does behaving like a bloody _adult_ mean? Does it mean running away from someone without giving them any warning? Because if it does, you're the best bloody _adult_ I've ever met."

"You _had_ warning, Harry! You had fucking _weeks_ of warning!"

"What are you talking about?" he shouted.

"This!" Ginny shouted back. "All of this!" She swept her arm around the room. "And you. Because this is exactly what I knew you'd do, even when I was hoping I would be wrong."

"So why did you _do_ it, then?"

"Because I don't want to be with someone who has no concept of behaving in any way other than that of a spoiled brat."

The words stung, she could tell, and she felt momentarily bad. Harry stood fuming at her, saying nothing. Finally he shoved a stack of newspapers and bottles off a nearby chair and sat.

"I'm not a spoiled brat," he muttered.

Ginny sighed again. "I _know_ you're not," she said, controlling her voice. "But sometimes you behave like one. I left--" she held up her hand to stop him from speaking—"I left because I was tired of being your mum. And maybe that was wrong of me, but I can't be that for you."

"You aren't my mum," Harry said quietly, after several long moments. His mood had swung from anger to depression in a heartbeat. Ginny was dreadfully aware that tears would soon follow.

"Harry--"

"And anyway," he continued, "that's not what you said to me. You said you left because—"

"I know what I said," Ginny cut in quickly. She definitely did not want to talk about it now. Perhaps if he hadn't been pissed when she walked in the door, but definitely not now. "Sometimes people say things."

"When they're angry."

"When they're angry."

"You weren't angry when you said it."

"I wasn't--" He was right. Ginny had told Harry that maybe she'd just be happier living with another girl in the middle of the fight, the eye of the hurricane after the first screaming match about the state of the flat and before the final blow when she'd set her things on fire and left without saying goodbye. The point in the argument when everyone is trying to be rational. "I know," she said finally. "But--"

"Always suspected you were a bloody dyke anyway," he spat, careening back into anger. Ginny's blood ran cold. Her fingers tensed around her wand.

"What?" she hissed.

"Oh come _on_, Ginny. It's obvious."

"Precisely _how_ is it obvious?" Any pity she had felt for him had clearly happened in a moment of weakness and was obliterated by a flash of rage. _He's just saying it to rile you_, the tiny voice of reason piped up from the back of her brain. _Don't take the bait, please? Please?_ Ginny swatted at it and the tiny voice shrieked and disappeared. "Please, won't you enlighten me?"

Harry fumbled for words. Ginny's eyes narrowed. A perverse thrill of victory ran through her. She'd called his bluff. The victory was paired with the slightest whisper at relief when she confirmed that it _was_ a bluff. Not that she had any problem with it, not the _fact_ of it, but still, to have Harry using it against her, and really, it wasn't fair, she'd only realized it herself after the fact, and wasn't part of her just angry that maybe Harry had spotted it before she had?

_Shut up!_ She mentally kicked the tiny voice as hard as she could.

"Waiting," she said, her voice impressively cool.

"I . . . I don't know, Ginny, I'm sorry." Harry's voice cracked. _Bollocks, he's about to start crying_. "I'm so sorry, I'll do anything you want, I'll clean the flat, I'll get a job, I'll go back to Auror training, I promise, I'll do anything."

Ginny's nose wrinkled in distaste. Still, she was beginning to feel a little better.

Harry began to cry, heavy drunken sobs. Ginny's sense of superiority was dealt a swift blow when she realized how absolutely awful his state was, and that it was all her fault. Not that she wouldn't have left him, he certainly wasn't winning any points back now, but still . . . she detested feeling responsible for the quivering mess before her. Harry had always been so reliable, so cool, so strong. Ginny wondered if she might be judging his emotional reaction more harshly than she would've anyone else's. _Imagine if it were Percy_, she thought. _No, that won't work. Because then I'd have to imagine I had been dating Percy, and that's pretty high up on my list of things to never even imagine imagining. Imagine he was . . . Neville_.

This only made Ginny feel worse.

"Drink some water, Harry," she said finally, her tone deflated. "You're a right mess."

"I know," he sobbed. "I haven't been able to do anything but drink for a week."

"You've been _able_ to," she corrected, "you've just chosen _not_ to."

"I'm sorry," he cried again. "Please forgive me."

Ginny sighed. "Harry, I will forgive you for what you said if you get it into your thick head that no matter what you do, I'm not coming back to you."

He sobbed louder. At least they were big sloppy phoenix tears now, not real ones. She let him wail in the chair and went around cleaning up the flat. She felt terrible still, but more convinced than ever that she'd done the right thing. Not that there was any question of having done the right thing, but it was always nice to have one's convictions reinforced.

"Drink."

He groped blindly for the glass, knocking it over. Ginny repressed a heavy sigh and refilled the glass. She put it in his hand and guided it to his mouth.

"I love you," he moaned between swallows.

The words had no effect on her. She knew it was probably true, he probably _did_ love her, but all it did was make her sad. She was enormously sad, looking at him, both for him and for herself. All that time she'd been with him was gone, and she'd never get it back. It would have been better for both of them if it had never—

But it had. It had been five years of her life, and it hadn't been _all _bad, had it? She had _liked_ Harry enormously, and figured somewhere inside her she still did. If you had never really loved someone, she wondered, did that make it easier to like them after you stopped being together? But what did that mean for Harry, who really _did_ love her?

She flirted with the idea of telling Harry about Hermione. Well, not about _Hermione_, that would be too much, and he would tell Ron anyway. But telling Harry he had been right all along, and even pretending like he hadn't been the first between them to know. Maybe it would give him some measure of comfort, thinking she'd just never been _capable_ of loving him all along. Of course, that wouldn't be fair to her to imply she hadn't been capable. She didn't think of it as an inability, just . . . an incompatibility, more like. _Imagine trying to love a dragon_, she started in her head. _No, that won't work. He'll think I'm trying to imply he's a dragon. Okay. Imagine trying to love a . . . _was it her fault that the only things she could think of to compare it to were horrible creatures? She didn't think he was horrible, wouldn't dream of seriously comparing him to a mountain troll, or a hydra, or a three-headed dog. But no suitable replacement popped into her head. _Must think of a better way to explain it_, she decided. But it might work.

"Harry . . ." she began, and drifted off. Harry looked up from his glass, which, she was glad to note, was nearly empty. The alcoholic haze he'd been peering through was beginning to break up. Now he just looked very, very tired. Very, very tired, and very, very sad.

"I'm sorry," he said without a trace of histrionics. His voice was soft, sorrowful. "It wasn't going to last, was it."

She shook her head sadly. "I'm afraid not."

"I suppose I have been a right git," he said and drained his glass.

"Maybe a little," she said. He smiled ruefully.

"I do love you, you know."

"I know. I love you too, just not . . . that way."

"What did I do wrong?"

"You didn't do anything," she said. She paused, looking around the flat. "Well, not anything wrong so far as me loving you that way was concerned."

He looked at her as though seeing her clearly for the first time. _He probably is_, Ginny thought, and chastised herself.

"Is it true, then?" he asked carefully. Ginny felt a little bit of her old affection for him beginning to nose around inside her brain. She could see him struggling very hard to say it calmly, struggling to form the thought in a way that wouldn't make her angry.

Ginny sat down on a newly-empty chair. "I think," she said slowly, "it might be."

Harry nodded, still trying to remain level. "So that's why?"

"I don't know if it's _directly_ why," she said. "I mean, not why on that day, at that moment, but it's entirely possible it would've been why eventually."

"Are you sorry you wasted so much time on me?" A trickle of self-pity began to dribble into his voice.

"I didn't waste my time," Ginny sighed. "It wasn't a _waste_, Harry. I _do_ care for you. I've always cared for you."

"But you never loved me. Like that."

_Might as well give him his misery straight from the source_, she thought. _He's earned it by now_.

She shook her head and looked at the ground. "I thought I did. Honestly, Harry, I did think so."

"That doesn't make it any better," he mumbled.

"I know," she said, still looking down. "And believe me, I feel awful about it. About wasting _your_ time. It was terribly unfair of me, Harry. But you seemed so _happy--"_

"I _was_ happy!" he cried. "I was so bleeding happy I didn't know what to do with myself! I left off my training to be with you--"

"That was _your_ choice," she said, her blood beginning to heat again. "I never _asked_ you to. And if we're comparing sacrifices, should I mention how I gave up Quidditch? Which, by the way, you _did_ ask me to do."

There was a laden silence.

"I thought we were going to have a family," Harry said, his voice quiet again. "We talked about it. Was that all a lie, too?"

"It wasn't a lie, Harry. When we talked about it I really was thinking about it. But I wasn't _ready_. I'm still not ready. I don't want children. Not now. I've got things I want to do with my life. I want to play Quidditch, Harry. It was miserable when I gave it up."

"Then why did you do it?" he said, both imploring and insufferably martyred.

"Because it made you happy," she said simply. "Because it made you so happy when we were talking about it. It made everything so much easier with us."

"So it was just appeasement, then? That's lovely, Ginny, really lovely."

"For Merlin's sake, Harry, I was trying to hold on for _you_. Don't you see that? I was trying to make _you_ happy. I thought I could be happy, could _learn_ to, so long as you were."

"That's bollocks."

"It's not," she said hotly. "It's what you do when you care about someone so much you'll do anything to make them happy. Though I can't lie to you, Harry, I'm beginning to regret it."

"_You_ regret it? How do you think _I_ feel?"

"I think I have a pretty good idea how you feel," Ginny snapped and stood up. "You're making it quite clear." She stalked into the bedroom.

"Where are you going?" Harry called after her.

"I'm getting what I came for," she said coldly. "I need my things."

He followed her into the room. "Please don't," he said. "I'm sorry."

"Harry, you've said you're sorry probably five hundred times. Frankly it started losing meaning to all me about ten minutes ago."

Harry kicked the door. Ginny burst out laughing.

"I don't see anything funny!" he shouted.

"You wouldn't," she giggled.

"What?"

"Nothing. It's nothing."

He huffed and stormed out. Ginny tried to control her giggles, but had to give up and collapsed on the floor. After several minutes she stood up, feeling much better. She opened the closet and started pulling her clothes out and throwing them on the bed. She realized she'd left her wand in the living room. She peered through the door. Harry was nowhere to be seen. Ginny paused. She hadn't heard the front door open. She stepped into the living room.

"Harry?"

A loud crash came from the kitchen. Ginny ran in and found him sitting on the floor, clutching a broken bottle of firewhiskey. "Oh Harry," she cried, kneeling next to him. "We've got to get this figured out." She stood up and fished through the cupboard for the bottle of dittany. "We've _got_ to," she said again, mending the cut on his finger.

Harry said nothing. Tears glittered in his eyes and Ginny's heart ached for him.

"Please, Harry, we have to make this right."

"We can't. _You_ can't," he said bitterly.

"Harry," she said patiently. "Listen to me. You know this isn't going to happen. You know, and I know, that it's over. You know that, right?"

He nodded numbly.

"You know that I do love you, right?" she said, sitting down next to him. He nodded again, pursing his lips to contain his sobs. "Oh, Harry," she said again, leaning her head on his shoulder. She could feel his jaw working furiously. She took his hand, which was cold and clammy. "Promise me you'll stop drinking so much, all right? I care about you, honestly. And it worries me."

Harry didn't move. Ginny stroked his hand tenderly. "You're one of my best friends," she whispered.

"So where are you staying?" he said, his voice rough.

Ginny couldn't decide if she should tell him or not. She suspected he'd know if she told him.

"In London," she said vaguely. "I've found a flat."

He nodded. "Right."

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you where I was," she said. "I promise I'll come back, if you want. Not to stay," she said quickly. "But to talk, if you want. I'd really like to still be your friend," she said. "I understand if you don't want to."

"I don't know right now," Harry said.

"Okay," Ginny said. "That's fine. But at least let me know how you are, sometimes. So I know you're okay."

He nodded.

"Thank you," she said softly. She sighed. It had been, all told, about as difficult and exhausting as she'd feared it would be. Granted, she had hoped she wouldn't find Harry a drunken mess, but truth be told she wasn't nearly as surprised as she thought she ought to be. As it stood she felt it had gone probably as well as it could have. _Maybe better_, she thought, running over the things they'd managed to discuss. _Maybe it will be easier for him._

She thought about Hermione waiting for her back at home. _Home_, she thought, and smiled. _Yes_.


	10. Chapter 10

She trudged up the street. Her feet felt very heavy. Her head felt heavy. She felt as though she'd aged twenty years since she'd left that morning. She felt _old_.

She spotted the flat and relief surged through her. _Almost there_. Up the stairs—honestly, hadn't Muggles heard of elevators?—and then she was at the door, sliding her key in, turning the knob, whispering her faint plea that Hermione really be there, that it be true.

Hermione looked up as Ginny slumped in. She had been reading _A History of Magic_.

"How can you _read_ that?" Ginny asked, trying to appear cheerful. "I don't know if anyone told you, Hermione, but exams have been over for six years."

"I'm just going through all my old books. It sounds silly, I'm sure, but I really . . . missed them."

"Not at all silly, coming from you." Ginny hung her coat on the peg and rubbed her temples.

"So?" Hermione asked, her voice neutral. Ginny shook her head and slid to the floor. She looked at the ceiling and groaned. Hermione leapt up and crossed to her. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Ginny replied. "Really. I'm really, really fine. Oh Hermione," she said suddenly, and flung her arms around the girl's neck. "I'm so glad you're not imaginary."

Hermione smiled quizzically. "To be quite honest with you I'm glad too," she said. "What happened?"

"Well," Ginny paused. "Would you mind getting me some of that firewhiskey?"

"Come on, hop up," Hermione said, pulling Ginny off the floor. "Sit yourself down on the couch."

Ginny flung herself on the sofa, her arm across her face. "It was awful, Hermione. Like, really, _really_ terrible."

"Didn't you think it was going to be terrible?" Hermione called from the kitchen. Ginny rolled her eyes.

"Well of _course _I thought it would be terrible, but _thinking_ something is terrible is much easier than the thing actually _being_ terrible, you see."

Hermione came back into the living room, shaking her head. "One of these days you're going to have to give me the decoder ring to your brain," she said setting down a glass.

"What's a decoder ring?"

"Never mind," Hermione said. "So it was terrible."

"Yes," Ginny said, sitting up and taking a swallow of the whiskey. She grimaced. "First of all, he was drunk."

"I suppose that's to be expected."

"He'd been drunk for a week," Ginny clarified. "The flat smelled like a distillery."

Hermione shook her head sadly. "I'm so sorry."

"I'm sorry too, for Harry. So we had a screaming fight about my leaving, and then he cried, which was probably the worst part."

"Did you tell him . . ." Hermione paused and looked at Ginny meaningfully.

"I didn't tell him about _you_," she said. "But I might have mentioned that part of the reason was because I just couldn't love him in the way he wanted." She took another drink. "He asked me where I was staying. I just said I'd found a flat in London."

Hermione nodded. "So are you going to be okay?"

"I feel great," Ginny said. "I mean, I feel bad that Harry took it so hard, of course, but going back there just made me more certain I'd done the right thing. If that makes sense."

"That, contrary to most of the things that come out of your mouth, makes _perfect_ sense." Hermione grinned. "I'm glad you did it."

"I am too, I guess. I'll ring over in a few days, just to make sure he's not still on his self-pitying bender." She sighed. "I'm so happy to be _home_. Did you have a good day?"

Hermione shrugged. "It was all right. Didn't do much."

Ginny nodded. She leaned back on the sofa, her head flopped over the armrest.

_Hermione's bedroom door was open_.

She sat back up abruptly. She didn't want to let Hermione know she'd been obsessing over the room, but she _had_ to ask. But how? What should she say? She couldn't decide if she ought to point it out, or wait for Hermione to mention it. But it certainly felt monumental. So she had cleaned it out while Ginny was away. Of course, it made perfect sense that she would do it when she was out. It would be much easier than trying to explain rubbish bags full of dirty pictures. Ginny was burning to know what Hermione's room looked like stripped, as it were, of pornography. Not to mention the piles of Lydia's garbage.

_What makes you think she's thrown all the photographs away_? she thought. _Maybe she's kept them. Maybe she just didn't want to go to all the trouble of getting rid of Lydia's things while you were around. _But that was ridiculous. Lydia's things had simply been an extension of the rest of the flat. It had to be the pictures. Ginny felt a pang of sadness when she thought of the dark-haired girl, crumpled in a ball, shoved deep in a bin somewhere. The girl had been insufferable sometimes, really, but she had been helpful too.

_I'm just in your bloody mind, you idiot_.

Right.

Still.

"Ginny?"

"Your door's open," she blurted. _Bollocks. So much for nonchalance_.

Hermione bit her lip, which Ginny decided was probably her favorite thing in the world.

"Erm—yes," she said, slightly embarrassed. Ginny raised her eyebrow. This confirmed it! It _had_ to be the pictures, what else could make Hermione blush and squirm so adorably? "I cleaned it out. I got tired of looking at—_for_, looking for my books. Plus there was loads of Lydia's stuff in there."

"Where'd you put it?" Ginny asked, amused. Hermione grinned and nudged a teacup on the table. Inside were the miniaturized remains of Lydia.

"Our entire relationship in a teacup," Hermione said. "Looking back I'm amazed it filled even that."

"Did you even _like_ her?" Ginny asked. Hell, she'd been through one horrible set of painful revelations today, she figured she'd earned the right to hear about somebody _else's _relationship misery for a change.

Hermione furrowed her brow. "No, I don't suppose I did. She was certainly _interesting_, and very intelligent, but not in the sort of way where one . . . _thinks_ a lot," she smiled at Ginny. "And the art bit, that was quite fascinating for a while. Until I lost my walls." She shrugged. "But _like_ her? No. My friends thought I was absolutely mad as well."

"Your friends?" This was the first Ginny had heard of any other friends. She was glad for it, part of her had been dreading the possibility that Hermione had been living alone, sequestered with that dreadful girl and no real friends. _That's stupid, though_, she thought, _Hermione's brilliant and lovely and wonderful, of course she'll have had other friends_.

Ginny felt momentarily shamed at even imagining Hermione living alone, miserable. But she supposed she couldn't blame herself entirely; since she'd had so little contact with her over the past four years it was inevitable that there would be things she didn't know. _And how_, she thought. Plus she'd always rather imagined Hermione's life in stasis, always pictured her exactly as she had been when they had been close, that she disappeared into a little pocket in space and time when Ginny wasn't with her. _And besides, Hermione wanted to give up magic_, she thought. _That meant keeping her magical life isolated from her Muggle life_.

"Yes, friends," Hermione said, smiling slightly. "You didn't think I spent my days locked up here writing bad poetry, did you?"

"Oh no, of course not," Ginny replied hastily. "Your friends, right."

"Nicola and Petra," she said. "You'll meet them, I'm sure."

"Are you?" Ginny was hesitant. She did fine when she was surrounded by witches and wizards, she could be the life of any party. But with Muggles—_proper_ Muggles, not just Muggleborn—she was certain she'd screw it up somehow. She also couldn't make Hermione look like a fool for choosing her, didn't want anyone thinking that she was just replacing Lydia—_how ridiculous for anyone to think that who'd met the girl, and Hermione already said her friends didn't like her, but still, it was possible_—

"They wouldn't have it any other way, and they can be quite . . . insistent," Hermione said. After a beat, she added, "they already know about you, anyway."

"They . . . what? How?" Ginny was confused.

"Well, I . . . told them," Hermione replied. "We met for coffee while you were out."

She _had_ been busy, Ginny thought. Perhaps she'd been fooling with a Time-Turner again. "Oh," she said. What was she to think of this?

"I hope you don't mind," Hermione said almost shyly. "It's just that . . .well . . ." she blushed.

"What?" Ginny asked. "What is it?"

"I sort of told them about you ages ago," Hermione said in a rush. "After I broke up with Isabelle--"

"Who's _Isabelle_?" Ginny said, very confused indeed.

Hermione laughed. "Oh Ginny, I'm so sorry. I keep forgetting how long it's been. Isabelle was . . . well, she was my first proper girlfriend."

The word still sounded so odd coming out of Hermione's mouth. _Of course, it will be coming out of mine in due course, I should probably get used to it_. The thought made her giggle.

"Anyway," Hermione said, eyeing her with a mix of amusement and slight exasperation, "I met her through Petra—she works at a bank—and she and Niks sort of set us up."

"Was she pretty?" It was the first question that popped into her head. "I'm sorry, that's so shallow. And none of my business."

"No, it's fine! Yes, she was pretty."

"What did she look like?"

Hermione sighed. "Do you really want to know?"

Ginny really did, though she couldn't for the life of her think of why. She didn't see how hearing about Hermione's pretty ex-girlfriend could _possibly_ make her anything but vaguely depressed. She nodded, and swallowed the rest of her firewhiskey. "Tell me."

Hermione sighed, then stood up and poured herself a drink. She summoned Ginny's glass and filled it.

"All right. Her name was—is—Isabelle Laurent, and she--"

"She's _French?_" Ginny cried. She thought of Bill's hateful wife and despised Isabelle already.

"Her _parents_ are French. They moved here when her mother was pregnant with her."

"Still makes her French," Ginny muttered.

"Anyway," Hermione continued. "She worked at Petra's bank, doing something very high up. I never really cared that much, to be perfectly honest, it all sounded dull as ditchwater to me."

"This from the girl who was doing a little pleasure reading from _A History of Magic_."

"Are you going to let me tell you this?" Hermione sat down next to Ginny on the sofa, throwing a pillow at her. Ginny choked slightly on her whiskey and nodded.

"Carry on," she said.

Hermione leaned against Ginny, resting her head on Ginny's shoulder. It felt lovely.

"So Niks and Petra set up sort of a blind date for us at one of their parties. And their parties are more often than not sheer shrieking insanity, so it's really not an environment conducive to _discussion_."

_Sheer shrieking insanity sounds interesting. Maybe I could work harder at not coming across as a brain-damaged foreigner in front of Muggles._ She was also struck by the idea of Hermione attending such a party. Hermione, for whom a late-night trip to the library was considered a wild evening out.

"What did she look like?" Ginny persisted.

"Rather like Katie Bell, actually."

Ginny thought it suspicious that Hermione seemed to be seeking out girls who looked like her old classmates. It would appear she hadn't done such a good job of erasing her past, after all. Of course, she'd been set up, it's not like she'd _chosen_ this French person.

"Taller, though," Hermione continued. "And with curly hair."

Ginny bit her tongue to prevent herself from asking what color Isabelle's hair was.

"It was blonde, Ginny, in case you were wondering."

She blushed. She tried to picture a tall, blond Katie Bell. Katie _had_ been quite pretty, she thought. And if she were taller . . . Ginny frowned. This Isabelle was making her very cross indeed.

"Don't get jealous," Hermione said. "After all, it was _me_ who left _her_."

"I'm not jealous!" Ginny protested. Hermione eyed her skeptically. "I'm not!" _Maybe a little_.

"We were together for nearly a year and a half."

"What happened?" Ginny asked. She was very careful not to sound too eager.

Hermione looked away, slightly embarrassed. "You," she whispered.

"_Me?_ But I wasn't even around--" She stopped _She doesn't just fancy you, you dense git._

Hermione bit her lip again. Ginny wondered if she had a mark from doing it so often. Not that she minded. "I realized I didn't want to be with someone who wasn't you," Hermione continued in a low voice. "That's when I told Niks and Petra about you. I said you were a footballer."

"Footballer?"

"It's a sport. Not really anything like Quidditch, but then again . . . what is?"

Ginny nodded. "You'll have to tell me about it if I'm going to meet them."

"I'm going to have to tell you a _lot _of things if you're going to meet them," Hermione agreed.

"So you left Isabelle, who thank Merlin didn't look like Fleur, because if she did I would've had to pummel you, really I would, and then what?"

Hermione sighed. "And then . . . nothing, really, until I met Lydia."

"So you were alone for . . ." Ginny added the figures in her head. "Three years?"

"Something like that," she said.

"Merlin's beard," Ginny whispered. "I'm sorry, Hermione."

"Don't be sorry, silly. You didn't have anything to do with it. Besides, it's not like it was the most horrible experience of my life. I've _been _through that, we both have. Comparatively, three years without a girlfriend was like _Wingardium leviosa_."

"Oh," Ginny said. She'd only been on her own once, very briefly, before she'd moved in with Harry. And she had truly enjoyed the solitude, but couldn't imagine it for three whole years. And three years without . . . even _bad_ . . .

"Good thing I happened along, isn't it?" she said, trying to lighten the mood. Hermione laughed.

"Indeed," she said, turning around and kissing Ginny sweetly. "The best thing."

Ginny reached up and caught Hermione's face before she pulled away. "Good," she breathed, and pressed her mouth to Hermione's.

There was a sudden liquid warmth in Ginny's body, like her limbs were made out of water. She'd felt it stirring the first time she'd kissed Hermione, but how could she not, she'd had the girl's body pinned against the counter and was all but devouring her. This time it was sweet and soft, Hermione's warm weight pushing against her, and she felt slightly faint. She was overcome with the urge to stroke Hermione's skin, to feel how smooth it was under her shirt.

_This is new_, she thought, unable to decide if she was nervous or delighted and settled on both. _I hadn't really thought this far ahead. Do I want to—_

_Do you?_ The dark-haired girl asked. Ginny wasn't sure if she was glad to see her or if she was ruining the moment. Hermione was whimpering softly; combined with the image of the girl Ginny was quite losing her bearings.

_I'm not sure_, she thought.

_I think you are_, the girl said, slightly superior. Ginny _definitely_ didn't need her knowing glances.

_Maybe I am. But I don't want to move too quickly_.

_An admirable idea._

_I think so._

_Looks as though she wouldn't mind,_ the girl observed. Hermione had woven her fingers through Ginny's hair and was running little kisses all over her face, which was doing nothing to help Ginny's composure. And she kept making those little whimpering noises. Ginny's head swam. The girl wavered in her mind, becoming faint and translucent. Hermione nipped Ginny's earlobe and the girl vanished entirely.

Her brain had turned into a quivering mass of sensation. The feel of Hermione's mouth on her skin had eclipsed any possibility of rational thought. Without knowing quite precisely what it was she was doing, Ginny slid her hand down Hermione's back, pausing just slightly at the hem of her shirt. Hermione whimpered again and Ginny felt quite dizzy, the sound so close to her ear, so soft, so quiet, so lovely.

Her body was humming, yes, that was the right word for it. _Humming, not like anything else. _Nothing, no, not at all like Harry, who at most had made her body buzz. There was a distinct difference, she decided. The buzzing had been dull, quieter, more persistent than passionate. But _this_—

Hermione looked up suddenly, worry marking her face. "Is this all right?" she asked, anxious.

"Lovely," Ginny breathed.

"I don't want to rush anything, to make you do anything you don't want--"

"Hermione, darling, you should know me well enough to know when I don't want to do something I don't do it," she said, pretending it was true. It was _nearly_ true. It would be true from now on because this was most assuredly something she wanted to do.

"I--"

"Hermione," Ginny said firmly, taking her face in her hands again. "You know how I feel about you, right?" As soon as she said it she knew it was true. She loved Hermione, properly, the way she'd tried to love Harry. _I love you_.

She was quiet for a moment. "I think so," she whispered.

"I . . ."

_Say it! Say it! Bloody say it! You know it's true, now bloody say it!_

"Yes?"

"Hermione, I--"

A sudden loud tapping at the window startled them. Hermione leapt up, leaving Ginny a deeply unpleasant mix of hot and cold. "What the bloody hell is it?" she cried.

"An owl," Hermione said, pointing at the window.

So it was. A large barn owl perched precariously on the windowsill, a small envelope tied to its leg.

"You've got to be _joking_," Ginny groaned. Hermione opened the window and tugged the envelope free. The owl hooted softly and flew off. "What is it?" She felt very cross again.

Hermione turned pale as a sheet. "It's from Ron," she whispered, her hand trembling.

"Ron?"

"Yes."

"He _never_ writes!"

"I know," Hermione choked, growing impossibly paler. "Here. It's to you."


	11. Chapter 11

Ginny took the envelope, a deep sense of dread coiling in her stomach. _How did Ron know where she was? Maybe he was only writing to say hello, it's not like he knew where the owl was going. But why would he write? He never wrote. _ Ginny knew in her gut it wasn't just a friendly note, and she worried its edges with her fingers._ The only way he could've known is if Harry told him, but she hadn't told Harry, he couldn't have known, unless—_

"How did he know?" Hermione whispered. Her hands were still trembling.

"I don't know," Ginny said. She turned the envelope over in her hands. She absolutely, positively did not want to open it. Maybe if she didn't open it they could pretend it had never arrived, yes, it would be easy.

"You have to open it," Hermione said.

Ginny squeezed her eyes shut. She slipped one cold finger under the flap and popped it open. Nothing happened. She realized she had been afraid Ron had done something to the letter, something horrible he'd learned in his training, afraid that maybe it would explode in her hands, or cause her to break out in festering pustules, or simply kill her where she stood.

"What does it say?"

"I haven't read it yet," Ginny half-snapped. "I'm sorry," she whispered. Hermione nodded mutely.

She slid the single sheet of paper from the envelope. It didn't appear to have too much writing on it, he couldn't be _that_ upset, right? Holding her breath, she unfolded it. A single sentence was scrawled angrily on the page.

_I LOVE HER, YOU CUNT_

Ginny felt as though she'd been punched in the stomach. Suddenly all the lovely parts of the past week were erased, and all the awfulness that her pure joy had held at bay came crashing forth. She hadn't bothered to think about Ron, not consciously, she'd pushed it aside. After all, she'd had Harry to worry about. Hermione should've been the one to tell Ron, she thought, but then again she hadn't bothered to tell him about Lydia, or Isabelle, or Merlin knows how many other girls. Hadn't bothered to tell him about Luna Lovegood. Hadn't bothered to tell him about _her_. A momentary flash of anger toward Hermione streaked through her. _It shouldn't be my responsibility to tell him you've never fancied him. It shouldn't be my responsibility to explain that you're never going to_.

"Ginny?"

Ginny couldn't decide if she should show Hermione the note. She couldn't decide if it was even a good idea to _look_ at Hermione, not while the anger burned in her. _Just breathe it out,_ she told herself. _Just clear your head. _

_Good bloody luck._

She held the paper tightly. She stared at the words, trying to think. The only thing that came into her head, stronger than her anger, stronger than her fury at Harry—since he was the only one she could think of who could've told Ron anything—stronger than Ron's certain rage at the pair of them, was that _she_ loved Hermione.

_I love you_.

The thought swept her anger away, replacing it with determination. Ron loved Hermione, all right, but so did she. And Hermione loved _her_. Ginny had gone her entire life trying to at least live up to her brothers, to make herself a presence in her own life, and this time, she'd bested them. She didn't like turning Hermione into a trophy, that's not what she was, but Ginny knew Hermione was _hers_, and in this case she decided Ron would just have to learn to accept it.

"He's not very happy," Ginny said, crumpling the note up.

"What did it say?" Hermione's voice was strained.

"It's not important. _Honestly_," she added, seeing Hermione's stricken expression. "It will only upset you more, and he obviously wrote it when he was very angry, so it doesn't matter. All right? It doesn't matter." She threw the paper into the air and muttered under her breath. The note flashed brightly and ash settled gently on the carpet.

Hermione's eyes slid closed and she began to sway gently. Ginny caught her under her arms before she crumpled to the floor. "Come on," she whispered. "Let's sit down." She guided Hermione to the sofa. "It will be okay," she breathed, kissing her on the temple. "I promise, it will be okay."

"It's been so lovely," Hermione said quietly. "I should have told him so long ago, Ginny, I should have told him."

"No, don't do this to yourself, love," Ginny soothed. "We can't change it, all we can do is fix it."

"How did he know?"

Ginny grimaced. "I can only think it was Harry," she said.

"But—but you didn't _tell_ him anything."

"I know," Ginny sighed. "But I told him I was in London, right? He probably guessed I'd go to you. And I'm sure he told Ron everything, pissed as he was."

"But you said you got rid of the alcohol!" Hermione's tone was growing frantic.

"I can't stop him getting drunk if he wants to," Ginny said, trying to maintain a modicum of control. "And I can't stop him telling Ron."

"Why would he _do_ that?" Hermione cried.

"I imagine it has something to do with my leaving him," Ginny said sardonically. "He didn't seem to be taking it too awfully well."

Hermione curled into a ball on the couch. "I knew this would happen," she said. "I knew it would."

"Well of _course_ it would. Unless you were planning to keep Ron in Scotland forever."

"I don't know," Hermione moaned. "I kept thinking that maybe when he finished his training he'd realize we weren't really so together any more. I kept hoping he'd meet some girl while he was up there and he'd fall for her and I wouldn't have to go through any of this."

Ginny bit her tongue. _You're not the only one going through this_, she thought bitterly. _You've had years to practice the speech_.

Hermione started shaking next to her. Ginny looked over and saw the tears streaming down her face. _Damn you for being so beautiful when you cry_, she thought and stroked her hair. No matter how much she wanted to stay angry at Hermione for causing this mess she just couldn't make herself do it. _At least it happened early_, she thought. _If it'd had been after I'd had time to find out all the irritating habits she has I probably would've been bloody furious with her_.

"Oh Ginny," Hermione choked between sobs. "I'm so sorry, I'm sorry, I don't know what to do."

"I don't either," Ginny replied ruefully. "All I know is that I love you."

She stopped. _I said it! Out loud and everything!_

Hermione stopped too. She sniffled loudly and sat up. "You do?" she whispered. Her breath hitched in her chest.

"Yes," Ginny said, her voice tinged with wonder. "I do. I love you."

"Oh." Her voice was soft, faint. "Oh."

"I love you," Ginny said again. She'd said it before, countless times, but when she'd said it to Harry it was more mechanical, it was automatic, along with "did you lock the door" it was just one of the things you say to the person you'd been sharing a bed with for three years. But saying it to Hermione, realizing it was absolutely true, and in the proper way, filled Ginny with a warm, glowing light. She wanted to repeat it and repeat it and repeat it, just to make that warm feeling grow. _But I don't have to say it at all_, she realized. _I just know it, and if that isn't the loveliest thing in the world, well . . . _

Hermione pulled Ginny close, nestling her head in the hollow of Ginny's neck. "I love you," she murmured. Ginny pressed her lips to Hermione's hair, breathing in the light scent of it. Flowery, but not _too_ flowery, and warm like straw that's been in the sun all day. Salty . . . but that must be her tears. _I can smell her tears_, Ginny thought. _Is that weird_? She decided she didn't care if it was weird.

"So," she said. "What shall we do about this?"

"I don't know," Hermione replied, sounding very tired. "I'd like to sleep for a month, do you think that will solve anything?"

"Unfortunately, as delightful as it sounds, I don't think it will." Ginny grinned. "I think, my darling, that we're going to have to take action."

"But I don't _want_ to take action," Hermione groaned. "I'm _sick_ of action."

"I pity you, then," Ginny replied, "because I'm afraid we've got a lot to do. Ron's bound to tell Mum--" the dread coiled in her again. She hadn't considered Ron, to be sure, but she _certainly_ hadn't considered her parents. Though to be fair to herself, she really hadn't had _time_ to consider them.

"Do you think he will?"

"I'm sure of it," she said glumly. "I know he's my brother and we're supposed to have a certain degree of . . ."

"Complicity?" Hermione suggested. Ginny nodded.

"Right, that. And usually we do—I mean, my parents have gone our entire lives never knowing exactly who it was who blew up the garden shed—but I think, probably, in this case that sibling pact just isn't going to hold up."

"What do you think they'll say?"

"I have absolutely no bloody idea," Ginny replied. "I suppose Dad won't take it too hard."

"I don't get the idea that he would either," Hermione said. "He's always seemed very . . . understanding."

"Yeah, Dad's brilliant like that. But Mum . . ." Ginny whistled. "All we can do is pray for a disaster."

"Don't you mean a miracle?" Hermione asked.

"Not at all. Mum's never been big on miracles. She thinks they're just laziness. _Disasters_, on the other hand, give her something to focus on. With a miracle, you see, all her work's been done for her, _plus_ she isn't allowed to criticize anything. I mean, that's what a miracle _is_, right? So we would need a really, like, _massive_ disaster."

Hermione shook her head incredulously. "You know, it might be better if we just kept pretending."

"That would've been my first thought too, but I don't think dear Ronald is going to give us that option."

Hermione rubbed her temples. "This is fucked, is what you're telling me."

"_This_ isn't fucked at all," she said, indicating the flat. "_This_ is wonderful." She kissed Hermione. "The _situation_, however, is most definitely fucked."

Hermione groaned. "Brilliant."

"Isn't it, though?"

Hermione buried her face in Ginny's chest. "I have to talk to him, don't I?"

Ginny nodded. "I'm afraid so. You might even have to go up there and talk to him face to face."

Hermione sat bolt upright. "No. I can't."

Ginny sighed. "Hermione, I know he's my brother and ordinarily I'd just say bollocks, what's done is done, but he's also my _brother_, you know? And as much as I hate to admit it, sometimes he deserves the truth, and not via owl."

"But I _can't_."

"Don't be ridiculous, Hermione. Of course you can. I know you don't _want_ to, but you _can_. And much as it pains me, I really think you've got to."

Hermione shook her head mutely. Her face was ghost-white, her lips pursed tightly. Ginny realized she'd never really seen Hermione quite so terrified before. Not even during the awful days when they had been fighting Dark forces, not even when they had been so close to losing everything. The realization made Ginny uncomfortable. Like seeing Harry drunk and sobbing it wasn't _right;_ Hermione was supposed to be calm and rational, she wasn't supposed to be shaking with terror. Ginny was abruptly very aware of how everyone around her had changed. Hermione, with all her secrets, and so fragile, so hesitant. Harry, petulant, spoiled, lazy. And Ron, who even though she hadn't seen or heard from him in ages, had become focused and studious, in his third year of intensive training for one of the most difficult, specialized jobs in the entire wizarding world. _I must have changed too. But what have I become? Who was I?_

She suddenly wanted to play Quidditch very badly. To grab her Starchaser Mark VII and soar high into the air, to disappear into the total focus the sport demanded. She didn't want to have to _think_ about anything.

Hermione clutched Ginny's hand. Her fingers were cold, clammy. Ginny sighed deeply. "Hermione, love, I know it's frightening. I was bloody scared out of my wits this morning--" _had it only been this morning? Harry certainly didn't waste any time—"_but I did it because I had to. And you have to as well, otherwise we'll never manage to be as happy as we could. And I don't think I'm far wrong in saying that this has the potential to be absolutely marvelous." She kissed Hermione's hand. "So please, do it. _Please_."

"But I've been so awful about it. It's been such a long time since I've seen him, it's been even longer since I . . . since I . . ." she started to cry again.

"I know," Ginny said, trying to repress her awkward discomfort. _Why couldn't anyone just be normal for five minutes?_ "And I can promise you it won't be easy, or fun. But you've got to," she said, her tone firm. "It's the only thing to do." Hermione kept crying. "Let me ask you something," Ginny said after a moment's thought. "Are you happy?"

"Right now?" Hermione cried. "Of course not!"

"Not right now, for Merlin's sake of _course_ you're not happy right now. I mean with your _life_. Are you happy—minus Ron, obviously—are you happy with your life right now? With who you are?"

Hermione considered the question carefully. Her breathing slowed and some of the tension eased from her face. Ginny used the break in the emotional maelstrom to take Hermione's tumbler of whiskey from the table. She downed it painfully and crossed to the sideboard, pouring another glass and handing it to Hermione who drained it in a single swallow. Despite her discomfort, despite the awfulness of the situation, Ginny stepped back for half a second to be impressed. _She didn't even flinch. Maybe this is what comes from going to parties that are sheer shrieking insanity._

"Yes," Hermione said finally. "I am."

"And is telling Ron you're happy with your life going to change that? Project yourself out a month from now, I mean."

"No."

"All right, so that's all you need."

"I _understand_ that, Ginny." Hermione sighed heavily. "I'm _aware_ that it's the sensible, logical, right thing to do. I just don't _want_ to."

"Nobody _wants_ to do hard things. That's why they're _hard_. If they were _easy--_"

"He wants to marry me," she said flatly.

Ginny's jaw dropped. She couldn't help it. It wasn't especially shocking or unexpected, but much like hearing herself declare her love for Hermione it stopped her in her tracks. "Did he ask you?" she asked.

Hermione nodded slowly, her eyes shut tight.

"When? What did you say?" _Why didn't I know? Ron would've told me. He would've told Harry, at least. _

"He asked me when he was on his last holidays. About five months ago."

"What did you say?" Hermione was silent. "Hermione, what did you _say_?" She looked at Ginny, her eyes glassy with tears.

"You didn't say _yes_, did you? Oh _bollocks_, Hermione! How _could_ you?" Ginny leapt off the sofa. She couldn't keep herself from exploding, just a little bit. After all—

"I didn't say yes!" Hermione cried. "I didn't say yes."

"What did you bloody _say_, then?" Ginny's impatience was increasing exponentially.

"I said I would think about it. And I _did_. I did think about it, really. I just never thought about . . . _doing_ it."

Ginny collapsed back on the couch, her arm flung over her face. She couldn't make her mouth work, couldn't make proper words come out, all she could manage was a low whine.

Hermione wiped her cheek with the back of her hand and sniffled loudly. "I know," she said, slightly petulant. "I'm sorry, believe me, I am."

Ginny still couldn't speak. She waved her hand at Hermione as though she were waving away a particularly persistent pixie. Hermione sighed deeply and pinched the bridge of her nose. "I have got the most bleeding enormous headache," she said.

"_You_ do?" Ginny cried. "I feel as though I've just been Bludgered about sixty times."

Hermione started giggling.

"What?" Ginny was a highly unpleasant mix of irritated and confused. "What could _possibly_ be funny?"

"It's just--" Hermione gasped, "it's just I got this image of you standing on the Quidditch pitch, getting hit by sixty Bludgers all at once. I'm sorry, it's kind of mean, but it was really—it was really funny." She dissolved into howls of laughter.

Ginny tried to maintain her disapproving exasperation but Hermione's laughter was infectious. She snorted and then fell on her side, her head resting on Hermione's knees.

After several moment they both fell silent. Hermione drifted her fingertips across Ginny's face, causing that prickly warmth to spread over her again. _This really isn't the time_, she thought. _Very serious things are happening. Very serious_.

Her body did not appear to care. All it appeared to care about was the delicate pressure of Hermione's fingers as they grazed her lip. The humming was getting louder and louder, and she desperately suppressed the urge to wriggle. _That probably wouldn't be appropriate. But she keeps doing that . . . sod it. _

She wriggled.

Hermione exhaled slowly and continued to trace the planes of Ginny's face and down her neck until Ginny was positively vibrating.

"I have to see him, don't I," Hermione breathed. Ginny hardly heard her. She didn't care at that moment. All she wanted was for Hermione to keep touching her like that, to keep her humming, vibrating, purring—

"Mmm," she mumbled.

"It's going to be very difficult, isn't it."

"Mmm."

"He'll probably hate me, won't he."

The sadness and timidity in Hermione's voice brought Ginny back to consciousness. The humming was ebbing away, replaced with that same awkwardness she'd felt earlier. _What happened to you?_ she thought. _New Hermione_. With great difficulty she opened her eyes.

"He won't _hate_ you," Ginny said. "If he hates anybody it's going to be me. Unless you were planning on going up there and spitting on him and running away."

"The thought had crossed my mind," Hermione said with a wry smile. "But something told me it wouldn't be very wise of me."

"No," Ginny sighed, sitting up. "Probably not."

"I should do it soon."

"Probably."

"Just go up there and get it over with."

"Yeah."

"He doesn't have exams or anything coming up, does he?"

"I have no bloody idea."

"Oh well," Hermione said. She blew a strand of hair out of her face. "I really am sorry," she said again, softly.

"I know. It's all right." Ginny tucked the strand behind her ear and looked at her. "I love you."

Hermione blushed. "I love you too," she whispered.

_Bloody marvelous!_

Ginny was delighted. So far in their infant relationship she'd managed to navigate several gigantic crises _and_ tell Hermione she loved her, _and_ it didn't seem to be on the verge of collapse. She felt very accomplished indeed.

"What did Ron's note say?" Hermione asked carefully.

Ginny sighed. "It's _honestly_ not important." Hermione looked at her doubtfully. "_Honestly_, and I wouldn't tell you anyway."

"That's cruel. You're cruel."

"I'm not cruel, I'm just practical."

"You call that practical? I call it cruel."

"Clearly we have some communication issues," Ginny smiled. "We'll have to work on that."

"Clearly," Hermione smiled in response.

"When do I get to meet your friends?" Ginny asked. She had maintained a low-level curiosity about them ever since Hermione had mentioned them. Now that the most recent crisis seemed to be inching towards resolution her curiosity renewed itself.

"I don't know," Hermione replied. "We've got to do some studying first."

"Studying? Miss Granger, I'd almost forgotten it was you in there!" Hermione pulled a face. "I know, I've got to learn all sorts of things. Like what this is," she said, pointing at a large object just off the kitchen.

"That's a dishwasher, Ginny, I'm sure you've seen one before."

"Of course I've _seen_ one, Dad used to bring them home all the time, but none of us could ever figure out how it worked or exactly what it did."

Hermione sighed. "Studying. Absolutely."

Ginny groaned theatrically. "If we _must_."

"But you know . . ." Hermione said, a glint in her eye. "Studying is always most effective when there's a reward."

"Are you _flirting_ with me?" Ginny gasped in mock surprise. "I'm scandalized."

"You've never been scandalized a day in your life," Hermione said. "I know you too well, you forget."

"How could I forget?" Ginny said, kissing her on the cheek. "Tell me more about these rewards."

"Well . . ." Hermione squinted at her and bit her lip. _Every bloody time that gets me._ "I'd say it's more . . . erm . . . _rewarding_ when it's a surprise."

Ginny sighed. "But I want to know _now_!"

"Good things to those who wait," Hermione said in her most proper tone. "Anyway, you've got to help me figure out what I'm going to tell Ron."

Of all the things Ginny had to do that particular thing was the least appealing. "All right," she sighed. "But I really don't want to."

"I don't either, but we've been through all that," Hermione said. "Unfortunately if we're ever going to have any peace it must get done, you said so yourself."

"Did I? That doesn't sound like me."

"Quit stalling!" Hermione punched her playfully on the arm. "Let's get to work."

Ginny groaned. She hated work.


	12. Chapter 12

The night had passed delightfully. After several hours of Ginny's Muggle education, covering everything from the basics of football—Ginny had thought it looked interesting enough but complained it would've been much better had the players been on broomsticks, at which Hermione rolled her eyes—to the finer points of the microwave ("You're absolutely _sure_ that's not magic?" Ginny had exclaimed as she watched a bag of popcorn expand rapidly), Hermione had sighed, yawned, and declared herself exhausted. Ginny realized she must be as well, though she hadn't noticed it was nearing the dawn side of the night. She had blushed—even through her weariness she could still manage nervous shyness—when Hermione had taken her hand and led her into the bedroom, which was, as she had suspected, cleared of pornography. She had yawned hugely and in doing so noticed that Lydia's slightly unwholesome floral explosion still graced the ceiling. She was secretly glad it had survived the purge, and while she was debating whether or not to point it out to Hermione—_which way would let her know I was in here before? If I make a big deal out of it she might suspect . . . if I don't, she might suspect_—she neglected to notice Hermione ducking into the bathroom to change into her pajamas.

She had been too worn out to worry about it. Yet standing there, in that room, with that vaguely carnivorous blossom hanging over her like it was going to swallow her up at any moment, she had been seized with the desire to see Hermione undressed. Like her fingertips had been determined to know what her skin felt like, Ginny's eyes were determine to know what Hermione's body looked like.

Ginny was on the verge of making a very purposeful accidental entrance into the bathroom when Hermione had come back in, face scrubbed, hair pulled back, clad in a thin t-shirt and shorts. Ginny had gasped at the sight, for half a second she had felt transported back to Hogwarts, as though she were standing in the dormitory with a fifteen-year-old Hermione. Hermione looked at her oddly and Ginny wrestled the gasp into a yawn, not hard to do, before sleepily mumbling that her things were in the living room. She had been about to stumble out for them when Hermione picked her wand up from the dressing table—_there was a dressing table_, Ginny had noted with surprise—and the bag came sailing in.

_Not fair_, Ginny had thought. Not that she especially minded changing in front of people, years of team sport had inured to it, but this was different, of course it was different. It _mattered_ what Hermione thought of her body. With Harry it had mattered too, but it was _different_. Ginny knew perfectly well she was attractive enough, she was athletic, limber, wouldn't have minded being a bit taller, but all in all . . . of course, Harry had only seemed to care that she be warm, soft, and next to him. Which was sweet, she supposed, but it hadn't really been that _important_. But Hermione . . . Ginny was nervous that Hermione would have a definite opinion about her body, since Ginny figured she paid more attention to it. Not that Harry didn't pay attention—

After a few moments of nervous fumbling, Ginny had shrugged and shucked her clothes, squeezing her eyes shut in her one concession to utter anxiety. When she had changed—with some difficulty, it was harder to change one's clothes with one's eyes shut that she had thought it would be—she opened them to see Hermione, her eyes demurely downcast. But no amount of pretty fluttering of her lashes could mask the deep crimson blush on her cheeks. Ginny had coughed, Hermione had looked up.

Hermione had said she was beautiful.

Ginny had hoped she would be able to fight off sleep for just a moment longer as she lay in Hermione's bed, pressed snugly against her, but as soon as Hermione's fingers started wending through her hair, gently, tenderly, Ginny had slipped into blissful unconsciousness.

Which is why she was so extraordinarily disappointed at this moment.

"But you have to go _today_? Right _now?_"

Hermione was tucking various things into her purse. Keys, her Muggle identification, a tube of lip gloss. _Lip gloss? To tell Ron she didn't love him?_

"I've made up my mind," Hermione said determinedly. "I don't want to wait. It's going to be hard enough, I might a well get it over with."

"But—but--"

"You're the one who convinced me to do it."

"Yeah," Ginny protested, "but I didn't mean _today_."

"What better day?" Hermione punctuated her statement by snapping her purse closed. "It's a weekend, Ron's not going to have any classes, I might as well just go and get it over with."

"But he's _furious!"_

"I know." Hermione paused. "I'm not looking forward to it."

Ginny's face was contorted with disbelief. "You could at least give him a few days to calm down!" she cried. "I mean _Merlin_, Hermione, he's going to go _ballistic_!"

Hermione sighed. "I don't think he'll go _ballistic_, Ginny. He's not going to be happy about it, that's for certain, but I thought . . . I thought if I did it now, while he was still angry just from finding out about it, well . . . maybe it would be better."

"How in the name of all that is good and wonderful could it be _better?_"

Hermione sat down on the bed. Ginny tried valiantly to untangle herself from the sheets but gave up and flopped back down, imprisoned by Egyptian cotton. "If something like this happened to you," she began, "wouldn't you rather get all your huge, nasty anger out of the way all at once? I mean, wouldn't you rather have the initial shock and then immediately get to have it out so it didn't just drag on and on and on, getting you angrier the more you thought about it?"

Ginny thought about it.

"I suppose you're right," she mumbled. "The Weasleys do seem to prefer a massive explosion to a slow burn."

"Right," Hermione said. "That's what I thought."

"But still, Hermione, just _think_ about it for a minute. I mean . . ." Ginny couldn't think of what Hermione ought to be thinking about. She knew it was useless to protest anyway; once Hermione was settled on a course of action it was impossible to sway her.

"At least Ron's rubbish at grudges," Ginny muttered. "The only ones in our family who can stay angry are Mum and Percy, and look at what a jolly time _that_ was for everyone."

"I might have to disagree with you," Hermione said. "Don't forget, he left Harry and me in the woods for _weeks_."

"You're not making me feel any better about this," Ginny replied. Hermione offered a thin smile.

"Well, we did find out later he'd been searching for us for ages. It will be okay," she said, leaning down and kissing her. "I hope," she added as she stood up. Ginny struggled again with the bedsheets, finally just lurching off the bed and dragging them with her.

"How are you getting there? Is there a way I can reach you?"

"I'm taking Muggle transport up, at least part of the way. I'll definitely need the time to go over what I'm going to say. And I have a mobile phone, so if you need to get ahold of me you can just call. You _do_ remember how to do that, right?"

"Yes," Ginny grumbled. She decided not to mention how she'd neglected to leave a message that first day. In retrospect, it had been a brilliant idea anyway.

"Good. I've left the number next to the phone." She kissed Ginny again, longer. "It will be okay," she said again, and Ginny could tell she was saying it more for herself.

Ginny frowned. "I can't say as I'm happy with this--"

"Oh Jesus, Ginny, I can only have one Weasley upset with me at a time and I'd prefer if it wasn't you!"

"I'm sorry," Ginny said softly. "I'm just worried."

"I know, love," Hermione smiled. "But it will--"

"—be okay, I know." Ginny managed to free herself from the sheets and hugged Hermione tightly. "Do call when you get there, and when you're coming back," she said.

"I promise," Hermione pressed her mouth to Ginny's again in a way that made Ginny glow. "I love you."

"I love you too," Ginny said, smiling despite herself. _I'll never get tired of saying it_.

Hermione took a deep breath and turned to the door. "All right," she said. "Here I go."

"Good luck," Ginny cried as Hermione walked out.

She flopped back down on the bed. This wasn't what she had thought would happen. Of course, hardly anything she'd thought would happen had happened, especially _this_ week, so who was she to predict the future?

She thought of Professor Trelawney, hunched over her crystal ball, the clink of her glittering beads against the glass. _Rubbish_.

Ginny lay on the bed for a very long time, trying to reason over what could possibly happen. Hopefully Ron's newfound maturity would serve him well, although the note he'd sent the previous day somewhat dampened Ginny's enthusiasm for that particular outcome. Still, he had every reason to be angry. She thought ruefully of Harry for a moment, of how utterly lost he had seemed. She winced in sympathetic embarrassment for him, and hoped he wouldn't remember just how desperate he had been. _But he did blab to Ron_, she thought, and sat upright. Resentment burned in her. _How could he do that?_

_You know how he could do that, you'd have done the same thing_.

The dark-haired girl was back. Ginny was not at all pleased to see her..

"What do _you_ want?" she snapped.

_You're thinking foolishly again_.

"So you're what, the voice of _reason_? That's a load of bollocks."

_I thought I was just a dirty picture, but I guess we're both wrong._

"I don't need your help, thanks."

_Oh?_

"No."

_Then explain to me precisely how you came to be in your pajamas in this room._

Ginny opened her mouth to speak and closed it again. _That bloody girl_.

"Fine. I'll grant you that. But what could you possibly have to say about this situation?"

_It's not like girls are a different species that behaves in a completely different way when they're upset. Harry's upset, he behaved like someone who's upset behaves. Ron's going to do the same thing, I can promise you that_.

"What, get drunk and break things?"

The girl sighed. Would've sighed. Ginny rolled her eyes. "All right. I _know_. It's not the same thing. It's not as if Harry asked me to marry him or anything. So Ron's got a right to be upset. I just don't want him to . . . you know."

_What?_

"Go mad. Like Harry did. I'm just so _tired_ of everyone acting so strangely, I wish they could just be _normal_ for a little while."

_But this is normal when your world is turned upside-down_.

"_I_ haven't done anything like that!"

_You've gotten what you wanted. You're the lucky one in this whole thing. Congratulations_.

Ginny hadn't thought about that. _I suppose I am. _"I suppose I am."

_And if you weren't the lucky one, what do you imagine would have happened?_

Ginny groaned. "I would've gotten pissed and destroyed everything I could get my hands on, I _know_, I _know_."

_I will say you didn't completely fuck up your meeting with Harry_.

"Thanks," Ginny said sarcastically. "How kind."

_You'll have to talk to him again, though_.

"_Yes_, I _know_."

_You'll have to say you're sorry_.

"Say _I'm_ sorry--" the look in the girl's eyes silenced her. She imagined she probably would. But maybe if she could do it right and not fuck it up she could convince Harry to start moving on with his life, get him to go back to his training, start mending his fences, rebuilding his bridges, whatever silly metaphors people were apt to use in these situations. He _deserves_ it, she thought. _He deserves to be happy. He deserves to go back to doing what he's good at. _

_Precisely_.

"All right, enough," Ginny declared. "You've been marvelous company as always, but I have got to take a shower and I'd appreciate doing it alone."

_Suit yourself_, the girl said. _But Hermione was right, you are quite beautiful_.

Ginny squirmed uncomfortably. She didn't quite know how to respond to her subconscious hitting on her.

"Okay, thanks. Goodbye."

The girl popped out of existence again. Ginny sighed and shook her head. "I wonder if she's still in here," she said, then giggled. _Stupid git_. She stretched, yawned, and headed for the bathroom.

After fumbling with the taps for several excruciating minutes, she emerged towel-swaddled and padded back into Hermione's bedroom. She was just zipping up her jeans when the buzzer rang.

_Oh bollocks_.

Ginny froze.

The buzzer rang again, longer.

_Whoever it is will go away. They'll go away. It's not Lydia, the window's still intact. So whoever it is can just go . . . away._

Suddenly a very loud voice was shouting up at the flat from the street.

"Oi! Hermione Granger! Are you going to make us stand out here all bloody day? I could be _drunk_ by now!"

Overwhelmed with curiosity—the very dangerous kind, since it had done nothing but get her into trouble, but it was so bloody _powerful_—Ginny crept to the window. She peeked out carefully and her jaw dropped. She blinked several times and rubbed her eyes, but it didn't help.

Luna Lovegood was standing on the sidewalk.

_Luna-fucking-Lovegood is standing on the sidewalk._

No. It couldn't be. There was absolutely no way it could be. Yet it was. The endless fall of platinum hair, the wide face pale as a moonstone, the enormous eyes.

"Hey!" she cried, pointing up at the window. "Hey Niks, she's up there, I saw her damned curtains moving! Buzz again!"

Ginny nearly collapsed. Of _course_ it wasn't. But who . . .

_Niks and Petra. You'll meet them, I'm sure._

She dropped down low, banging the same knee she'd injured only a few days before. "Bollocks!" she shouted. The buzzer rang again, a persistent drone filling the flat until Ginny thought her head would explode.

"Let us _innnnn_!" Petra shouted. "I need to talk to you!"

_Don't call Hermione's mobile_, Ginny prayed. The second the thought entered her head the telephone in the flat began to ring. Coupled with the buzzer it was beginning to make her go slightly mad. Without thinking she snatched the phone from the end table.

_Oh. Shit._

"Hermione?" Petra's voice was tinny and distant. "I know you're there, you bitch, probably trying to hide your girlfriend from us. You can't keep her locked away forever, you know! We have ways!"

"Devious ways," another voice called. "Let us in!"

Ginny was in a state of unequivocal panic.

"What's going _on_ up there?" Petra asked. "Why aren't you speaking?"

_Damn damn damn. Why did I pick up the bloody phone? Damn! _

"Umm . . ." she said. _Shit! Shit! Shit!_

Hermione was not going to be pleased.

"Who is this?" Petra's voice dropped down, tinged with suspicion. "Where's Hermione?"

Ginny was silent, her heart suddenly a large, hot stone lodged firmly in her throat.

"Waaaaaait a minute," Petra drawled. Ginny could hear the grin in her voice. "This is _Ginny_, isn't it? Well hullo, Ginny!"

"Let me talk to her!' the other voice cried. Sounds of jostling on the other end, and the other woman, her voice lower than Petra's, filled Ginny's ear. "Hello _darling_, Nicola here, please call me Niks unless you owe me money."

"Hello," Ginny stammered.

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._

"She can talk!" Nicola crowed. "Now love, would you be so kind as to let us come up?"

"I—I can't," Ginny gasped. _This was very bad. This was very, very bad._

"Why on earth not?"

"Be—because . . . Hermione isn't here," she finished lamely.

"Oh, that's just _ridiculous_. She'd be delighted that we met!"

"I don't think she would," Ginny said, trying to disguise her ever-spiraling panic. On the other end more jostling as Petra took the phone back.

"Now Ginny," she said, "I know Hermione seems to think you're from some strange country and that our habits and ways might frighten you, but I _promise_ we don't bite."

"Much," Nicola added.

"I really can't," Ginny said. She tried desperately to think of a way to make them leave. "I'm not . . . dressed." _That's the best you can come up with?_

"If you think that's going to stop us you're sadly mistaken," Petra said. "Niks, be a dear and get the keys out of my bag."

_They had keys??_

Ginny gaped into the receiver. The jingling sound of keys amplified a thousand times in her ears. This was not at all—

"I hate to do this, really I do, but Hermione said I was only to use them in an emergency, and I think this qualifies."

"How does it _qualify_?" Ginny cried.

"I just _decided_ it qualifies, all right? So put on some trousers, my dear, we're coming up."

The line went dead.

Ginny emitted a high squeak that she was quite certain she'd never emitted before. After a totally dumbstruck moment blinding panic bludgeoned her. _They were coming up. They'd be in the flat. Must hide everything, must hide it, must put the wand away, must put the books away, must put the whiskey—_

The long scrape of a key in the lock made her jump up. She only had time to shove the books under the sofa and kick her wand behind a cabinet when the door swung open.

Petra and Nicola stood in the doorway, wide grins on their faces. Ginny's own face was stark white and contorted into what she was quite certain, in the detached part of her mind, was a particularly grotesque expression of terror.

The two women stood perfectly still for a moment, surprise and delight on their faces. Suddenly they burst into the flat and fairly attacked Ginny, kissing her cheeks and enfolding her in a series of embraces that did nothing to calm her nerves.

"My _God_," Petra cried. "It's the original!"

Ginny tried to make sense of it, but her brain was such a screaming vortex of fear, dread, confusion and horror that all she could do was stand bolt upright, her face frozen.

"Just _look_ at her!" Nicola said. "Everything makes much more sense now."

"I'm—I'm sorry?" Ginny said finally. She still couldn't move.

"Well, just _look_ at you! You're what Lydia would've been had someone not pissed in her petri dish!"

"I suppose we must give Hermione _some_ credit for taste," Petra added. "So, tell us everything."

"Everything?" Ginny stuttered.

"Everything," Nicola agreed. "_Look_ at this place!" she cried, moving around the room. "You can help move things out of our flat any time."

"What?"

"Well, the last time I was here—and granted, it was quite a while ago—I had to get special permission from the government in order to even _enter_. Biohazard, you know."

"Bio--" Ginny's confusion had broken through to a level she'd never imagined possible. _Biohazard_?

"You look like you could use a drink," Petra said, patting Ginny on the shoulder. "It may be eleven-thirty, but temperance has never been my strong suit." She crossed to the sideboard. "Firewhiskey?" she said, examining the bottle.

_Shit_.

"Must be one of those things she got in Wales," Nicola said.

Petra shrugged. "I am nothing if not adventurous." She uncapped the bottle, pouring three glasses. She shoved one into Ginny's hand. "You must drink this, darling, you look absolutely terrified."

"And you don't even _know_ us yet," Nicola added.

Ginny blinked rapidly, trying to get some grasp of the situation. She looked at her hand and noticed clearly for the first time that it had a glass in it. Saying a silent thanks she tossed her head back and swallowed the lot.

"Marvelous," Petra said approvingly. "I just love her already, don't you?"

"Well, Hermione does, so I was going to have to regardless. But she _is _making it much easier."

The alcohol made Ginny slightly calmer. She relaxed her muscles, only realizing at that moment that she'd been so tense it was a miracle her bones hadn't snapped. She blinked again, more slowly, and looked for the first time at the two women who were now lounging quite comfortably on the sofa.

Up close, Petra's resemblance to Luna Lovegood was less pronounced. Her nose was slightly more snubbed, and her mouth more generous. But still, it was eerie. The sense that Hermione hadn't at all managed to escape her past struck Ginny again. Her eyes slid over to Nicola, who she was slightly surprised to discover didn't look like anyone she knew. Her hair was short and curly, very dark brown. She was shorter than Ginny, probably Hermione's height, she reckoned. Nicola had wide brown eyes and a smattering of freckles across her delicate nose. They were both, Ginny decided, very, very pretty.

"Hello," she said, and blushed.

"Hello!" Petra cried. "I was wondering if you'd noticed us!"

"Of course I had," Ginny said, and stopped. _That sounded rude. I can't be rude to Hermione's friends on top of all this, they'd be sure to tell her about it_. It was Ginny's fervent hope that she behave normally enough to convince the two of them to keep their meeting a secret. "I mean . . ."

"We know what you mean, darling," Nicola said. "Obviously we've frightened you, and for that we apologize. But you understand," she continued, leaning forward and resting her elbows on her knees, "we simply _had_ to meet the famous Ginny."

"I'm not famous," she cried, and blushed again. _Maybe a little famous. But they wouldn't know that!_

"Petra and I don't follow sports, so I really wouldn't know if you're famous or not."

Ginny was on the verge of panic again when she remembered what Hermione had told them. _I'm a footballer. Right_.

"What I mean is that Hermione has been going on about you for _ages_."

"Years."

"Centuries."

"Really?" Ginny was pleased and anxious at the same time. But the women were so very nice, in a dragon-in-a-china-shop sort of way, that she felt herself relaxing despite the warning sirens that still screamed in her head.

"Really," Petra confirmed. "To be quite honest if we _hadn't_ seen you we were about to declare Hermione a lunatic and have her locked up for the rest of her days."

"And we _adore_ her, so we were _really_ hoping it wouldn't come to that."

"Where is she, anyway?"

"She's--" Ginny stopped herself. _You will think about this_, she commanded her brain. _You will not blurt out the first thing that comes into your head, which is invariably the truth, which invariably leads to disaster._ "She's in Scotland," she managed. "Working on the book."

"I swear that girl does more traveling than . . . I don't know," Nicola said. "I don't know how she manages, unless she's going by magic."

Ginny choked. _Hopefully they didn't notice_.

Neither one of them seemed to register Ginny's reaction.

"When will she be back? Despite what you might think, I really did need to speak with her. I've been ringing her mobile, but she's not answering."

"Hence our little visit."

"I don't really know," Ginny said. "She just left this morning."

The women nodded. "So," Nicola said brightly. "You went to school with Hermione?"

"Yes."

"She hasn't told us _anything_ about it. I'm sure she was brilliant, though. I mean, she's brilliant _now_."

"Yes, she was the top of her class." Ginny desperately wanted to change the subject. She didn't know what kinds of questions they would ask about their Hogwarts days, and Ginny had no idea how to respond to anything tricky they might bring up.

"And did you know that she'd fancied you back then?"

"Niks!" Petra elbowed her in the ribs.

"I'm just curious!" Nicola cried.

"She's told me," Ginny said. _Even if it's embarrassing it's better than talking about what Hermione's best subject was,_ she thought. _I don't think a discussion of Arithmancy would go over very well_.

"Lovely," Nicola smiled widely. She opened her mouth to speak again, and Ginny prepared a wince for whatever she would say next. Before she could utter a word a loud buzzing started in her purse. She groaned loudly. "Gerard, you bloody _asshole_!" she shouted. "Every bloody _time_ I'm right in the middle of something!" She pulled the phone out of her bag. "Please excuse me, Ginny darling," she said with forced sweetness. "I just have to verbally murder my boss."

"Oh—sure," Ginny said. "You can go in the--" _Can't go in the bedroom._ "It's no problem."

"What, what, _what_?" Nicola screamed into the phone. "I am so incredibly in the middle of something, Gerard, the bloody building had better be on _fire_—what? No! I cannot fucking _believe_ this!" She threw the phone across the room, sending it crashing through the window.

_Not again_.

Petra stared at Nicola.

"I knew it would happen one day," Nicola said simply. "I'm so sorry about the window, love, of course we'll have it replaced."

"Don't worry about it," Ginny said hastily. "I can do it."

"A footballer _and_ a glazier? You just keep getting better and better, don't you. Come on Petra. Gerard's told the publisher he doesn't _care_ if half our budget gets cut."

"What a sodding idiot," Petra sighed.

"I am going to castrate him, I swear to _God_."

"That wouldn't accomplish anything."

"No, but it would make me feel a hell of a lot better." She stood up. "Are you absolutely _sure_ about the window?"

Ginny nodded vehemently. "_Please_ don't worry about it." _Just go, just go, please_.

"Let's go cut his balls off," Nicola said, tugging at Petra's arm. "Then maybe a light lunch."

Petra sighed and stood. She looked at Ginny apologetically. "I'm sure we could have made a better impression," she said.

Ginny shook her head. "I think you're lovely. I mean--"

"We know," Nicola said, pulling at Petra. "We have to go, please, or I'm making you fire half of the staff when the publisher decides to take Gerard up on his offer." She turned to Ginny. "You are simply _adorable_." She embraced her again, kissing her cheek. "To the office."

Petra crossed to her, embracing her as well. "Lovely to meet you," she said. "Hopefully next time we can do it with a minimum of property damage."

"This _is_ a minimum, Petra, come _on_, let's _go_." She was standing by the door tapping her foot impatiently. Petra smiled at Ginny again and they turned to leave.

As they crossed the threshold Ginny darted after them, taking hold of Petra's sleeve. "Please," she whispered. Petra looked at her quizzically. "Please don't tell Hermione."

The women looked at each other incredulously. "Of _course_ we won't!" Petra cried.

"Wouldn't _dream _of it!"

"We would never deny Hermione the pleasure of introducing us to the girl she's been mad about for twice as long as we've known her. That would be _cruel_."

"Thank you," Ginny said, a rush of relief crashing over her. "Thank you, thank you, thank you."

"Until later, darling," Nicola blew her a kiss and hustled Petra out the door.

As soon as Ginny had turned the deadbolt she sank into a puddle on the floor. Her brain was so full of information, of emotion, of sheer adrenaline that everything whizzed behind her eyes in a white blur. _They won't tell_, she repeated to herself. _They won't tell_.

Finally she stumbled to her feet and swayed into the bedroom, collapsing on the bed. When she had lain still long enough to stop her mind from reeling so quickly she closed her eyes and tried to process what had just happened. Petra and Niks seemed to be lovely people, that was good, and they seemed to like her, which was even better. She couldn't quite get over how much Petra resembled Luna, and unbidden the image from all those years before sprang up. _Purple marks on Hermione's neck. Long blond hairs on her sweater_.

She realized she was very tired. She hadn't even been awake for three hours and already she felt as though she could sleep for a month. _Must be the stress catching up to me_, she though as she drifted into warm black slumber.


	13. Chapter 13

Ginny woke to the familiar, fear-inducing sound of a key in the lock. She blinked groggily and rubbed her eyes, trying to get her bearings. It took nearly four seconds for the first rush of anxiety to creep up her spine.

_Hermione was back already? _

She didn't know how long she'd been asleep. She stumbled to the window and pushed aside the curtain. It was very, very dark—she'd been unconscious for several hours. Shaking her head to try and rid herself of the last vestiges of her unanticipated nap she rushed out the door to find Hermione, very pale, expressionless, and clearly waterlogged from what appeared to be an extended bout of crying.

"Are you all right?" Ginny asked, then mentally smacked herself. _Of course she's not all right. Just look at her_.

Hermione didn't say anything, just pushed past Ginny and threw her purse on the bed. She crumpled onto the bed, tugging the blankets up over her head. Ginny sat next to her and hugged her tightly. "What happened?" Hermione made a soft keening noise, which Ginny interpreted as _it was fucking miserable, what do you expect? Now kindly leave me alone until I feel like talking to you_. "I'll be in the other room if you want to talk," she said rather awkwardly. "I love you," she added, squeezing Hermione again. Hermione made another small noise and Ginny stood up, patting her gingerly through the blanket. She backed slowly out of the room.

In the living room her throat seized up when she saw the broken window. _Thank Merlin I saw it before she did_, she thought as she dug under the couch for her wand. A quick swish-and-flick and it was repaired. Ginny eyed it for a moment and then muttered a charm that would hopefully make this the last time she'd have to fix it.

_Hopefully it was the last time anybody would try_, she grumbled to herself. She sat down on the couch and tapped her foot idly. She realized she had nothing to do, and since Hermione was clearly too distraught to be any company Ginny decided to flip on the television in the far corner of the room. Hermione had given her some basic instructions on its use, telling Ginny that she didn't reckon there would be anything worth watching, but she obviously hadn't thought that Ginny, whose experience with the telly had been extremely limited, would be so fascinated by the tiny world contained within its plastic walls.

She found a program that seemed to be some sort of contest, two rows of ordinary-looking Muggles facing each other and shouting frantically while a large wheel spun between them. When the wheel stopped both rows fell silent and a glistening, heavily pomaded man, who reminded Ginny strongly of Gilderoy Lockhart, looked at where the arrow attached to the wheel had fallen and called out the name of one of the Muggles to wild applause.

Ginny had no idea what the program might be, but she was deeply impressed by the enthusiasm of the participants. She stared, openmouthed, as one row began shouting at the other, while the opposite side began writing something frantically on small sheets of paper.

After nearly half an hour she hadn't been able to figure out what the shouting and writing were about, but she was rather pleased for one of the contestants who was now the proud owner of a set of equipment announced as a complete barbecue kit. Ginny wasn't entirely sure what a barbecue was, but the woman looked beside herself with excitement and Ginny couldn't help but get caught up in it.

She examined the presenter closely. His waved, immobile blond coif and way of smiling which made him appear as though he had too many teeth in his mouth was eerily reminiscent of Lockhart.

"Wasn't hard for him to get on the telly when he got released from St. Mungo's," Hermione said behind her. Ginny jumped.

"It _is_ him, then!" she cried.

"Yes. The staff released him after deciding he would do just fine as a Muggle, since he didn't remember anything about magic. It's not surprising he managed to find a career in television, either; one of my friends was a production runner and said they're all like that."

"Self-obsessed nutters?"

"That about covers it," Hermione agreed. She crossed to Ginny, who watched her nervously. She looked much better, still quite pale, but Ginny had to take her presence as a good sign.

"How are you?" she asked tentatively, taking Hermione's hand. Hermione took a deep breath, as though she were trying very hard to prevent herself from bursting into tears.

"I've been better," she said finally. Ginny stood up and led her to the couch. Hermione sat next to her, leaning gratefully against her shoulder. "It was about as horrible as I could've imagined," she mumbled.

Ginny sensed it would be better to let Hermione talk about it at her own pace.

"He was bloody furious, of course. He was so angry it was a good twenty minutes before he'd even let me into his rooms." She slid her arm around Ginny's waist, clinging to her. "And then he just screamed at me for a good hour."

"Oh love," Ginny said, kissing the top of her head.

"I think it was good," Hermione said. "I mean, it was bloody awful, but I think in the long run it will be good. Once he was done screaming he was just so worn out, he couldn't even stand up. Of course, that meant we had to have one of those horrible earnest talks. Those are the worst," she said sadly, "since they sound so rational, but really everybody is using their best calm voice to say some really awful things."

Ginny hugged her close. Hermione went limp in her arms. "It was terrible," she said again, and rubbed her face on Ginny's shoulder. The childlike gesture made Ginny's heart tremble in her chest. Hermione was so vulnerable, so unguarded, so defenseless, Ginny felt a wave of protective instinct wash over her.

"I love you," she murmured. "I will never say awful things to you."

"Thank you," Hermione whispered. "But honestly, some of what he said was true. _Most_ of it was true, actually, I just didn't want to hear it."

"He wasn't just being a hurtful ass, was he?" Ginny frowned. "Because I'm his sister and I know his weaknesses. I have no problem going back up there and--"

"Ginny," Hermione sighed. "That won't be necessary. No, he wasn't just being rude for its own sake. He was . . . grown up. It put me quite off my guard, to be honest. No, the things he said about me—about me and him—were perfectly reasonable. Just hard to hear."

"What did he say?" Ginny asked carefully. She didn't want to push Hermione to repeat awful things, but really, the girl was being maddeningly coy.

Hermione groaned. "Mostly that he knew a long time ago."

"Knew what?"

"About me. About how I am."

Ginny was on her guard. She doubted Ron would be openly nasty about it, but there was always the possibility that he'd say something royally fucked up. "Oh?"

"Yes. I think the worst part for him was that I didn't tell him ages ago."

"Well he could've bloody well brought it up before!" Ginny said, anger beginning to poke at her. The rational part of her brain knew it wasn't really Ron's fault but the rational part of her brain had learned long ago that what it had to contribute was inevitably drowned out by the loud insistence of her emotions.

"We talked—erm, shouted—about that as well," Hermione said. "But it's the sort of thing that you can't really discuss if you only have suspicions. Because what if you're wrong?"

Ginny didn't care. He may have been her brother, he may have been wounded and upset, but Hermione was her lover and Ginny would go to Azkaban before she let anybody hurt her.

"But _still--_" she protested. Hermione looked at her, the expression on her face making Ginny fall silent.

"Anyway," she sighed, "it's over. I don't think I'll be talking to him again any time soon." She paused. "Nor will you, I'm afraid."

"Me? What did _I_ do?"

"You seduced his girlfriend," Hermione reminded her.

_Right._

_But I didn't do it on purpose! And how—_

"How did he find out?" she asked.

Hermione twined her fingers through Ginny's. "Harry," she replied.

"I knew it. I bloody _knew_ it!"

"Yes, but to be fair, Harry didn't actually know himself."

"Then how--"

"He guessed you were staying with me," Hermione cut in. "And then Ron just sort of . . . connected everything. It had obviously crossed his mind before."

"What had?" Ginny felt the same sort of anger she'd felt at Harry when he had implied—

"That I might not . . . entirely fancy him," Hermione said. "And that you--" she broke off. "I don't know if I ought to tell you," she said, her voice soft.

"Too late," Ginny said, trying to maintain her relative calm.

Hermione groaned again, and wriggled around until her legs were thrown across Ginny's lap, her arms around Ginny's neck. "Promise you won't get mad," she said plaintively.

"I wish I could," Ginny said through clenched teeth, "unfortunately it just doesn't seem entirely possible."

Hermione took a deep breath and squeezed Ginny's fingers tightly. "He said it wasn't any surprise since you'd so obviously been mad about me since school," she breathed.

Ginny was dumbstruck. _But I wasn't—I haven't been—it was only a week—_

"I told him that was bollocks, of course," Hermione continued. "But he didn't believe me. And then when I reminded him about Harry, well, he . . ."

"He _what_?"

"He just . . . laughed. He said Harry had been talking to him, especially when they were both in training, and that the reason Harry left off was because he thought . . . he thought that by spending more time with you he could fix it."

"Fix it?" Ginny was quickly losing the precious store of patience she had carefully saved up for occasions such as this.

"Fix . . . you. How you maybe felt." Hermione fell silent for a moment. "Of course I told Ron the whole thing had been a complete surprise to you, but he only laughed again and said it was awfully . . . _convenient_ that you took to it the way you did."

Ginny vowed never to speak to Ron again. Not for her own peace of mind, but because she was fairly certain that if the shock of her relationship with Hermione didn't kill her mother, her killing Ron certainly would.

"I couldn't really think of anything to say to that," Hermione whispered. "So I didn't say anything, and then Ron got this horrible look on his face and said something about Quidditch."

Ginny laughed, a harsh, barking chuckle. "I wondered how long it would take him to get there," she said bitterly. "I bet Mum will jump to it in half a second."

"He's not going to tell her," Hermione said.

Ginny paused. Maybe she wouldn't have to kill him. Maybe just breaking his arms and legs would suffice.

"He said it was none of her bloody business anyway if his sister and his ex-girlfriend were shagging."

Ginny blushed, quite despite her best intentions.

"And then he told me to get out," Hermione said, the tears spilling down her cheeks. She hugged Ginny more closely. "It was the way he said it," she moaned, her words muffled. "He was so _calm_."

"Hermione," Ginny said, controlling herself very carefully, "you did it. That's the most important part. And I know you feel bad, I want to bloody _murder_ him, but I think I can safely say we'll all get over it."

"I don't know," Hermione cried. "I don't know if he'll get over it."

"He will," Ginny replied, trying her best to sound convincing. "After all, he's not going to tell Mum, that's a good sign."

"I guess," Hermione sniffled.

"And now," Ginny said, changing her tone, "it can be us, for real. Not that it wasn't for real before, of course," she added hastily, "but now it can be us for . . . _real_."

"Yes," Hermione whispered.

"And that," Ginny said, lifting Hermione's face to hers and kissing her, "is the most wonderful news I've heard all day."

"Yes," Hermione murmured, kissing Ginny back.

"It's brilliant," Ginny continued, placing small kisses on Hermione's cheeks where the tracks of her tears glistened bright in the lamplight. "It's the loveliest thing I could possibly imagine."

Hermione's breathing slowed and the tears stopped falling. Ginny kissed away the last remnants of Hermione's distress and slowly ran her hand up and down Hermione's back. Hermione wriggled slightly in response to Ginny's touch, her lips grazing Ginny's jaw, her fingers flexing against her hand. She murmured faintly as Ginny's mouth touched the tender flesh just behind her ear, shifting her position so she could press more closely to Ginny's body.

The warm sparkling light began to glow in Ginny's stomach again, the humming began to swell in her ears as she slipped one cautious hand under the hem of Hermione's shirt. Her skin was impossibly soft, impossibly warm under Ginny's fingertips as she traced up and down the faint nubs of Hermione's spine.

The dark-haired girl peered out from behind a shadowed corner in Ginny's mind.

_Yes?_ she asked interestedly.

_I think so,_ Ginny replied.

_Good_, the girl said and slipped away again.

Was it? Was this the time? She didn't know exactly what she was doing—that wasn't right, she knew _exactly_ what she was doing, she just didn't know _how_ she was doing it—but the braver she got in her exploration the more certain she was that this was precisely the right thing, that this was precisely the thing she had been waiting for.

Hermione moaned faintly and her mouth found Ginny's, capturing it decisively, Hermione's tongue pushing between her lips, exploring her. The humming intensified, she wouldn't have been at all surprised if her body simply vibrated right off the sofa. Her hand moved more confidently under Hermione's shirt, her palm open, pulling Hermione closer to her.

Hermione sighed as Ginny's fingers pushed under the band of her bra. She sighed as Ginny's mouth moved over hers. She sighed as Ginny's other hand cupped her cheek and slid down her neck, she sighed until Ginny thought she would go mad from the sound.

"I don't know quite what I'm doing," Ginny mumbled apologetically.

"Don't apologize," Hermione gasped as Ginny's fingers slipped down her shoulder to rest on her breast. _I hope she doesn't realize I haven't the faintest idea_, Ginny thought. She swallowed nervously as she stroked Hermione's breast through the fabric of her shirt, her brain swaddled in sensation. _Is this how she felt when Luna—_

_Stop it!_

Hermione stopped abruptly. She pulled away from Ginny and stood up. Ginny felt an awful sinking feeling in her stomach, certain she'd done something terribly wrong. Hermione smiled.

"Come on," she whispered, holding out her hand. Ginny couldn't speak, couldn't form thoughts, only took Hermione's hand and allowed herself to be led into the bedroom.

"Is this all right?" Hermione whispered. Ginny nodded dumbly. Hermione reached out and grasped Ginny's shirt, pulling it slowly over her head. She stood, unable to move or speak or think, as Hermione slowly unbuttoned her trousers, sliding them down her legs to a puddle at the floor. She stood, unable to move or speak or think, as Hermione unfastened her bra and slipped it down her arms. She stood, immobile, as Hermione tugged her underwear down her hips.

She stood, immobile, naked, Hermione drinking in the sight of her body.

She'd never been so nervous in her entire life, not the day of her first match with the Harpies, not the day she'd decided to kiss Harry for the first time, not the day she'd decided to kiss _Hermione_ for the first time. Even if she'd wanted to move or to speak or to think she was fairly certain her body simply wouldn't allow it.

"Beautiful," Hermione whispered, leaning close to kiss her collarbone.

The moment her lips made contact with Ginny's skin a surging heat raged through her. The liquid intensity low in her belly tripled-quadrupled-exploded across every inch of her body. She was absolutely certain beyond certainty that this was absolutely right.

"I love you," she gasped as Hermione's mouth moved over her skin.

"I love you," Hermione whispered between kisses. She put her hands on Ginny's waist, their cool pressure intensifying the heat that shimmered through her body. Her mouth hesitated over Ginny's nipple, then the soft warmth closed around the tiny area of flesh and Ginny's knees buckled slightly.

"Are you all right?" Hermione asked softly. Ginny murmured incoherently. She blinked hard, trying to maintain some semblance of awareness, she wanted to remember every second of this forever. The way Hermione was navigating the planes of Ginny's body was making it very difficult indeed—

Ginny suddenly grasped Hermione's wrists and pulled them away from her skin. She smiled, somewhat drunkenly, she imagined, and very carefully lifted Hermione's arms over her head.

"You've already gotten to see me," she said, trying her best not to sound ridiculous and sleazy. "I'd say it's my turn now." Hermione blushed and bit her lip, which didn't at all help the stability of Ginny's knees. She carefully pulled Hermione's shirt off, undressing her the same way she had been undressed. When the last scrap of fabric fell away Ginny gasped.

She was fairly positive she'd never seen anything so beautiful in her life.

Hermione's body was elegantly proportioned, softer than Ginny, accustomed to the lean, hard flesh of Quidditch players, was used to seeing. Its delicacy made her tremble, the thought that she would be able to touch it made her quite dizzy. She reached out tentatively, running the flat of her hand across Hermione's stomach, around her waist, eager to feel the warm skin against her own. Hermione's breath was ragged, coming in shaky bursts.

Ginny decided to let instinct take over. She leaned forward and pressed her lips to Hermione's neck, repeating the same pattern Hermione had just executed on her own skin. She delighted in the taste of her, salty, slightly sweet, and ran her tongue across the sharp jut of Hermione's collarbone. She could feel Hermione trembling beneath her, goosebumps raising on her skin. Ginny slipped her fingers down the faint ridges of Hermione's ribs, letting her palm rest on her hip. Her mouth drifted down the long slope of her chest, Ginny reveled in how indescribably soft the skin of her breast was, then taking a slight breath she closed her lips around Hermione's nipple.

Hermione gasped and nearly fell backward. Ginny caught her around the waist, pulling her close. The contact of their bodies proved too much, and Ginny fell, as elegantly as she could, to the bed, pulling Hermione with her.

As they lay side by side Ginny thought it was a much easier thing to make love to a girl than it ever had been with any boy, if only because it felt so pleasant. Hermione's skin, achingly soft, achingly sweet, the tiny whimpers that drove Ginny mad with desire, the slow, excruciating pace at which their bodies, their fingers, their mouths moved. All the boys she'd been with had tried their damnedest to be patient and attentive, but had invariably given up within what seemed like seconds. Ginny was determined—as determined as she could manage to be what with Hermione's tongue doing _that_ to her ear—to draw the pleasure out as long as she could. She ran her hands up and down Hermione's torso in long, sweeping strokes, drawing nearer and nearer to the radiant heat between her legs. She hadn't thought she'd be capable of teasing; if anything she'd been afraid her lack of experience would result in embarrassing fumbling, but she was delighted to discover that her body seemed to know exactly what to do.

Hermione's hands were likewise tracing warm routes across Ginny's flesh, leaving tingling paths behind them. She didn't know how her flesh could stand such torment, but figured it was possible, even that it was better this way. Still, a voice in her brain was growing louder and more insistent, she wanted Hermione to touch her, to stroke her, right in the most delicate spot, to slide her hand down Ginny's stomach, to part her thighs, to—

And then Hermione was, she was sliding her hand down, she grazed Ginny's thigh with her fingertips, Ginny didn't hesitate and shifted, letting Hermione's fingers push just so—

She bit down on Hermione's earlobe as her fingers slipped between Ginny's legs, the pleasure exploding behind her eyes, the pleasure incinerating every thought she could hae made in a blinding white flash. The only thing that remained in her mind as Hermione's fingers pushed in gentle spirals over her flesh was that she loved her, she loved her, she loved her—

Ginny gasped and thrust hard against Hermione's hand, arching against her, her breath stopping as she came. She was dimly aware of Hermione's whimpering, dimly aware of Hermione's fingers still making those tiny circles as she cried out, clutching at Hermione, burying her face in Hermione's neck, waves of excruciating pleasure crashing over her, tugging at her as they slid away, intensifying as Hermione's mouth found hers, as Hermione's tongue pushed against her teeth, as Hermione's hand manipulated her tender flesh.

As her orgasm subsided Ginny was indescribably pleased to discover she still wanted Hermione, still wanted to taste her, to touch her, to make her cry out. Before, with boys, as soon as she had come—if that—she had immediately felt like bolting. But now—

Still trembling from the aftershock, she kissed Hermione fiercely, her hands moving more determinedly over her body. Hermione writhed as Ginny shifted position, pulling her leg up and over so that Ginny was kneeling over her. She writhed as Ginny's mouth began a trail down her body, between her breasts, over the flat plain of her stomach.

If Ginny had been able to formulate a thought, she would have thought that despite having never done anything like this before, this was exactly what she was supposed to do.

She kissed the small crest of Hermione's hips, running her hands up and down the sides of her body. "I love you," she murmured, and lowered her mouth between Hermione's legs.

Hermione bucked and twisted as Ginny ran her tongue over the delicate folds of flesh. She moved carefully, trying to gauge Hermione's response to her maneuvering. She didn't seem to be doing too badly, judging from the way Hermione gasped and clutched at Ginny's head, pushing her mouth against her. Ginny raked her fingernails lightly over Hermione's skin, the resultant moan making her tingle. She broke contact for a moment, wanting to see the expression on Hermione's face. She was biting her lip so hard Ginny thought she would draw blood, her eyes shut tight, her fingers gripping the blankets. She smiled, utterly pleased with herself, and leaned back down, running her tongue around Hermione's hot core, faster and faster, Hermione's hips thrusting hard against her mouth, and just when Ginny thought _if it was me I think I might be dying_ she nipped the hard, insistent flesh right at her center.

Hermione arched high in the air, her head thrown back, her mouth open in a silent cry of pleasure. Ginny continued to run her tongue across the swollen flesh, gently, wanting to prolong Hermione's orgasm as long as she possibly could.

Hermione relaxed slightly and Ginny sucked at her again, softly, making Hermione shudder. As her body slackened Ginny kept her mouth pressed lightly to her body, placing tiny kisses across her trembling flesh.

_I'd say that was all right_, she thought. _Not terribly bad for my first time._

She smiled to herself and slid up Hermione's body, resting her head on her belly. Hermione's hands wove into Ginny's hair. Ginny closed her eyes, relishing the shallow breaths that shuddered through her.

After several minutes Hermione spoke.

"I love you," she said, her voice gravelly with exertion and exhaustion.

"Not too awful, then?" Ginny said, half-joking. She felt it had been all right, _she_ felt marvelous, her body heavy and drowsy and sated.

"Are you bloody joking?" Hermione said weakly. "I don't think I'll ever be able to move again."

"Worth the wait?"

Hermione tugged on her hair. "Silly git," she smiled. "You've always been worth the wait."


	14. Chapter 14

Ginny yawned widely. Sunlight streamed in through the window, illuminating the aspidistra nestled in the corner. She had awakened from a particularly pleasant drowsy sort of slumber, not really sleeping, but close enough to satisfy her. It was one of those moments when she was just asleep enough to look half-consciously at the flat, and still revel in the delicious sensation that it was a dream while knowing on a vaguely conscious level that it was, in fact reality. She blinked and rubbed her eyes sleepily. Wednesday afternoons were her new chosen nap day, since Hermione was generally in some far-flung corner of the world, culling new stories for her anthology.

Except she wasn't today. Ginny remembered with a jolt that Hermione had left earlier that day to go shopping for the party.

_The party! Bollocks!_

She sat up and looked wildly for the clock. _Only half-past two. Thank Merlin for that._ She stood and stretched. At least the party wasn't at the house, she wouldn't have to do any pesky masking of the evidence of a magical existence.

A tiny thrill shot through her at the thought of going to her first party at Niks and Petra's. She'd had her first _official_ meeting with them two days after their first actual encounter, and as far as she could tell Hermione hadn't any idea they'd met before. The only suspicious moment had been when Nicola had mistakenly forgotten to squeal over Ginny's resemblance to Lydia; fortunately Petra had elbowed her in the ribs just in time. They _had_ managed to insist on having a party to introduce Ginny to everyone in Hermione's circle, an idea only moderately resisted by Hermione herself. That she hadn't protested wildly had excited Ginny—further proof, she decided, that Ginny was there to stay. Not that she _needed_ the proof, but still, there were days when she couldn't believe her luck.

On other days she _could _believe it. She had seen Harry again, nearly a week before, and while he was sober and calm, she still left their lunch with a horrible sick feeling in her stomach. He had behaved very much like the old Harry, the boy she'd first been attracted to, and it made her sad all over again. It had only been the thought of Hermione waiting for her back at the flat, the knowledge that she loved her, that had kept Ginny from bursting into totally uncharacteristic tears. Still, she was glad she'd seen him, glad he'd had some time to think about things. He had been suitably apologetic about Ron, who had made no attempt to contact any of them, but Harry promised he'd try and talk to him when he went back up to Scotland.

They had decidedly not talked about Hermione, or Ginny's relationship with her. Ginny didn't even think her name had even been _mentioned_, which she thought a touch disturbing, but probably excusable at such an early stage. There would be plenty of time, she had thought with a smile.

And now, today, she was standing in the bedroom staring blankly at the closet. What would she wear? Ordinarily dress was never an issue, but she thought she ought to make an attempt. Niks and Petra were quite fashionable, and Hermione's taste had evolved beyond knit jumpers and jeans into something far more sophisticated than Ginny had remembered. She had gone shopping a few times but had usually come home with Muggle novelties—an electric razor, a complete croquet set, and her favorite, a new mobile phone—instead of any stylish clothes. Still, Hermione had dragged her to the shops one weekend and picked out some new things for her. And here she stood, with absolutely no idea of what to wear.

She had thrown every possible garment she could think of on the bed and was on the point of closing her eyes and grabbing blindly when the front door scraped open.

"Ginny?" Hermione called.

"In here!"

Hermione walked into the room, where Ginny had amassed a mountain of clothes. "What are you doing?" She paused. "Should I ask?"

Ginny grinned. "I'm trying to find something to wear tonight."

"Were you hoping to jump in and emerge fully clothed?" Hermione giggled. "Because I'm sorry, love, it probably wouldn't work out."

"What am I _supposed_ to do?" Ginny cried. "Your friends are awfully posh, Hermione. I'm just some Quidditch player—sorry, footballer—from the country."

"Don't sell yourself short," Hermione said, crossing behind her. "You're lovelier than all of them." She put her arms around Ginny's waist and pressed her lips to her neck. "Plus, you know it doesn't matter to me what you wear."

"I know," Ginny teased. "You'd rather just see me in nothing at all."

"Bloody right!" Hermione said, tugging at Ginny's shirt. She pulled it up over her head, making the tiny gasp that she always made when Ginny's flesh was revealed, the tiny gasp that made Ginny's head swim. Hermione kissed her shoulder lightly, a long ribbon of tiny kisses, across the back of her neck, her other shoulder, down her arm. Ginny shivered at the contact.

Hermione slid her thumbs under the straps of Ginny's bra, slipping them down her arms. Ginny held her breath as Hermione caressed her, felt the heat rising under her skin as Hermione's hands slid up and down her torso, across her stomach, hooking through the belt loops on her jeans.

"We don't have much time," Ginny breathed. "I have to get ready for the party."

"That may be," Hermione murmured, "but in order to get dressed you first have to get--" she unbuttoned Ginny's trousers and pushed them down—"undressed."

Ginny didn't bother pointing out the blatant ridiculousness of Hermione's come-on, instead deciding to give points for trying. She whimpered softly as Hermione's fingers ran lightly across her skin. She could feel the gooseflesh rising under Hermione's touch. As her hand drifted across her breast Ginny moaned and turned to face her, capturing her mouth in a fierce kiss.

She had turned Hermione around and was on the point of pushing her onto the pile of clothes currently doubling as a bed when the telephone rang.

"Oh bugger," Hermione groaned.

"Just ignore it," Ginny said, sliding her hand under the waistband of Hermione's trousers.

"I—ohh—I can't," Hermione breathed, not doing a very good job of resisting Ginny's advances.

"Of course you can," Ginny murmured as she slipped her fingers beneath Hermione's underwear. Hermione bit her lip and held her breath, Ginny's fingers pushing softly against her, and she writhed under Ginny's touch. "See?" Ginny said teasingly. "It's not so difficult." She stroked Hermione gently, Hermione's hips thrusting against her, the pressure, combined with the liquid heat of Hermione's body, was making Ginny quite lightheaded. She sped up the rhythm and kissed Hermione hard, delighting in her soft mewling calls, in the sudden arching of Hermione's back as she came under Ginny.

"See?"

"Mmm?"

"It's stopped ringing," Ginny said. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

Hermione grimaced and threw a blouse at Ginny. "That was unfair."

"All's fair," Ginny smiled. She stood up and started out of the room.

"Wait a minute," Hermione called.

"Yes?"

"You can't leave! That's _definitely_ unfair."

Ginny shrugged. "I have to get ready," she said.

"Come here!" Hermione cried, leaping off the bed and grabbing Ginny's arm.

"I have to take a shower," Ginny said. "Because I _happen_ to be going to a very important party tonight."

"Oh _do_ you?" Hermione said. "As it turns out, _I_ am going to that very same party."

"Guess you better get ready, then."

"I guess I'd better." She kissed Ginny, sucking on her lower lip in a way that made her swoon. "Seems like I could do with a shower myself."

"Shame to waste the water," Ginny said, still half-pleased that she'd managed to keep up flirty banter as long as she had.

"Isn't it," Hermione replied. "Seems like there must be a way around that."

Ginny raised her eyebrow and pulled Hermione into the bathroom.

When they were both suitably clean, which almost certainly took much longer than two separate showers would've, they stood regarding the pile of clothes on the bed again.

"We've still got my original problem," Ginny said.

"I still vote for you wearing nothing," Hermione said and kissed her again.

_The loveliest thing ever,_ Ginny thought. _Shame it took so bloody long_.

"I don't know how your friends would feel about that."

"My friends would be delighted," Hermione said. "_Too _delighted, actually, so let's find something for you to wear." She set to tearing apart the pile of clothes, holding up different items and dismissing them with a shake of her head.

"What kind of a party _is_ this, exactly?" Ginny asked nervously when Hermione had gone through two-thirds of the clothes.

"Oh, don't worry, you'll do fine."

"That doesn't really help," she said as Hermione tossed what Ginny thought was a perfectly respectable pair of trousers over her shoulder.

"This," Hermione said, holding up a short blue dress. "This is _perfect_."

"But it's a dress," Ginny said distastefully.

"It won't bite you, you know," Hermione said, thrusting it at her. "Put it on."

"But it's a _dress_," Ginny said again, plaintively.

"And you will look beautiful in it."

"I thought you said it didn't matter what I wore," Ginny pointed out.

"Well . . . not to _me_. And Niks and Petra adore you so they don't matter, but there will be a lot of people there, and I want them all to be intensely jealous."

Ginny sighed and rolled her eyes. She slid the dress on and stood, pouting. Hermione eyed her appreciatively. "Beautiful," she said.

"It's so . . . _short_."

"Ginny, it reaches your knees."

"But--"

"You wanted my help, you wear what I tell you," Hermione said dismissively. "Good, you're dressed. Now I need to find something. What about this?" she said, holding up a pair of satin trousers.

"_You_ get to wear pants? That is _patently_ unfair!"

Hermione smiled. "I'm afraid you'll find a lot more to moan about if you're not a good sport," she said.

"What are you talking about?"

Hermione wrinkled her nose. "Well . . ."

"Well _what_?"

"You know these parties are . . . wild."

"So I've heard."

"And well, since it's your first one you'll be expected to . . . _participate_."

"Participate?"

"Yes."

"Hermione." Ginny was getting very nervous. "Am I expected to do something horribly embarrassing in a room full of people I've never met before?"

"It's not that," Hermione said quickly. "But Niks and Petra are quite keen on games, you see. Nothing _sordid_," she added, "but you should probably be prepared to . . ."

"To _what_? Hermione, I could still stay home."

"It's just party games, Ginny, please don't get upset."

"You're not making a strong case for calm rationality," Ginny said, frowning. "First I have to wear a bleeding _frock_, and now I'm expected to be some sort of _experiment--_"

"It's nothing like that! They're just very keen on party games."

Ginny had never played a Muggle party game. She'd never been to a Muggle party. She was nervous enough about saying something strange, and now Hermione was throwing the prospect of games at her—

"It's just Truth," Hermione said.

"I thought the truth was exactly what we were trying to avoid," Ginny grumbled.

"Nobody really cares about _that_ kind of truth," Hermione said. "They'll just demand to know about your first snog, things like that."

"Oh," Ginny said, infinitely relieved. "I think I'd be rather a disappointment."

"Well, it's the principle."

"Sounds a bit silly for a bunch of adults," Ginny said. "Like something we'd do in the common room."

"Trust me," Hermione said, pulling a tight black blouse over her head. "After enough shots of tequila it's like nothing you've ever seen."

Ginny thought about asking what tequila was but was distracted by the sight of Hermione leaning over to pull up her trousers. "Exactly how," she started, trying to focus, "did you get so interested in these parties?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean--" the teaspoon of exposed skin between Hermione's shirt and her trousers was infinitely interesting—"when we were at school, you always preferred studying to socializing."

"When we were in school I had other things on my mind. I was certain I was going to work for the Ministry—well, certain until everything went all to hell. And after that, I had to focus on far more important things."

"So?"

"So, after . . . everything, after I left the magical world, I thought I'd earned some fun. And when Petra invited me to the first party and I had a lot of fun—which I hadn't expected to do at all, believe me—I realized I'd been missing out on a lot. I don't ordinarily behave like that, so it's nice to have a place to go . . . a bit mad, I guess."

"Hmm," Ginny mumbled. She was still unconvinced, but thought for the sake of the evening she'd go along with it. "So I'm to be prepared to embarrass myself."

"Probably," Hermione admitted. "But by that time everyone's so drunk that nobody will remember."

"That's some comfort, I suppose."

"How do I look?" Hermione said, standing up.

Ginny looked at her. "Lovely," she breathed. "Delicious."

"Perfect," Hermione grinned. "Now we've just got to do our makeup and we'll be ready."

"_Makeup_?" Ginny cried. This was sounding more and more like a formal gathering than a party. "But it's a _party_!"

"I know that," Hermione said. "But part of the object is to look as good as possible. It's not like a post-match party." She walked out of the room.

"I didn't think it would be," Ginny huffed. First a dress, and now she had to put on makeup. Hermione would probably expect her to wear heels. Ginny set her jaw. She would _not_ wear high heels.

"Don't forget," Hermione called from the bathroom. "It's the first time they're all meeting you. We're making them mad with envy, remember."

Ginny regarded herself in the mirror doubtfully. "If you say so," she muttered.

"Don't worry," Hermione said, reappearing. Her makeup was flawless. Ginny wondered which charm she'd used. "You will. Just _look_ at you," she said, and Ginny could see the glimmer of lust begin to shine in her eye.

"No funny business," Ginny teased. "Don't want to ruin your makeup."

Hermione stuck her tongue out at Ginny, who swiftly leaned in and sucked it into her mouth. When she broke the kiss, Hermione pouted at Ginny.

"I thought you said I couldn't ruin my makeup."

"Precisely," Ginny replied. "_You _can't. _I_, however, can do exactly as I please."

"Now who's being unfair?"

"I have to get ready," Ginny said, grinning. "Can't disappoint your friends."


End file.
